


The Telegram

by aeroport_art



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1910s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Case Fic, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Murder Mystery, San Francisco, Separate Childhoods, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-11
Updated: 2008-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One windy day, Samuel Winchester, accomplished lawyer and well-to-do man of Society, inherits an unlikely article after the inexplicable death of a stranger. With it, he falls into an intricate web surrounding his mother's age-old murder, and all the while, a mysterious man with sharp green eyes (and a sharper blade, yet) dogs him, trailing crumbs of information that do little to satisfy young Mr. Winchester. Debutantes, horse-buggys, and good old-fashioned balls appear alongside demons, ruffians, and the darker underbelly of turn-of-the-century San Francisco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally published at [my Livejournal](http://aeroport-art.livejournal.com/61303.html) in 2008.
> 
> Artwork by leyna55

 

 

 

 

 

 

At precisely 8:30 PM, on a windy Sunday night in the upper boroughs of San Francisco, Samuel J. Winchester receives a telegram.

It reads as follows:

 

ABIGAIL GUNTHER DECEASED STOP PERSONAL EFFECTS FOR PICK-UP STOP

 

Sam idly fingers the parchment—he finds this telegram peculiar, for he knows of no Abigail Gunther. The sender information reveals no mistake on the behalf of Western Union; the wire comes from the Property Clerk at Sheldington Morgue and is addressed to Sam, clear as day, so he fishes in his pockets for a copper or two to tip the courier with—makes it a nickel, as he observes the powerful gusts of wind outside with a sympathetic eye. The young man thanks him profusely, re-mounts his bicycle, then forges back through the night, teetering precariously upon each gale that meets him sideways.

Sam shuts the door and the howls of wind immediately quiet, like a group of shushed children. Up two flights of stairs, Sam returns to his apartment and asserts himself once more at his writing-table, tweaking the gas lamp for a brighter flame; as a lawyer in the thick of marital disputes, supposed theft, and other questionable accusations risen from the ashes of San Francisco’s latest earthquake, there is no rest for the weary. Even four years after the apocalyptic event—the city aflame and fallen horses strewn across melting streets—Sam still cannot escape the deluge of civilian squabbles that effuses his vocation with anxieties more akin to those of a harried school-teacher than of a proper lawyer.

Latent desires to pursue his true calling of criminal law—the subject of which Sam specialized in at Stanford University—will simply have to wait.

From the fan of documents nesting on Sam’s desk, he slides the top-most over and absently double-underlines a previous mark with his pen. Inevitably, _unwillingly_ , his thoughts stray back to the telegram. As if vigor will ground his focus, Sam forcibly underlines the same word, when the ink stutters; Sam examines the tip and discovers dried flakes encrusted at the nib. Of course, he must properly clean it if he is to make progress on his work for the night.

As Sam refills the pen reservoir with a pipette of black ink, he glances at the telegram, which sits unfolded on his desk atop the veritable mountain of loose paper. He ruminates upon the name of the deceased—Abigail Gunther—and reaffirms that he knows of no such woman.

Sam pinches the pipette rubber and a long blurt of ink jets out over his forefinger—“Damn,” he curses, dashing to his sack coat which hangs in a corner as he pulls folded fabric from its breast pocket to dab at the mess. It’s no use though; he’s ruined the sheets of paper, and his handkerchief too, with nothing to show for it but unsightly smudges on his fingers that liken him to an unkempt breaker boy or coal shifter. It seems he’s misplaced his mind to-night, perhaps blown away by the violent oncoming of Autumn that snuck into his home when he’d opened the door for the courier.

Sam drops the ruined kerchief resignedly on his writing-table, then leans over to extinguish the lamp. There will be no work done to-night, whether he attempts it or not; he simply hasn’t the concentration for it. The room is quickly invaded by darkness. Nature’s exhalations can be heard outside, sweeping across his windowpanes and catching in the cracks with whispering whistles, magnified in his ears with the loss of sight.

Sam toes off his oxfords before entering his small bedroom. He disrobes on the blind, clumsy path towards the bed, bumping his knees painfully against the frame before he crawls underneath the covers. He is promptly claimed by the tenuous fingers of sleep.

\-----

The Property Clerk at Sheldington Morgue is a slender man whose seemingly interminable height—more remarkable than that of Sam’s own, even—recalls images of an over-grown bamboo stalk. He sways, too, when he speaks; it may have something to do with the generous proportions of his head, and the weight of keeping it upright.

“—are Mr. Samuel J. Winchester, are you not?”

Sam blinks up at him. “Come again?”

The Property Clerk sternly crosses his arms. “I’m sorry, sir, but I should like to see some identification. I cannot simply hand off Ms. Gunther’s personal effects to the first gentleman who comes in, CLAIMING to be the inheritor.”

Sam blinks for a moment, then takes the folded telegram off the counter to tuck back inside his wallet and exchanges it for his newly-acquired operator’s license. He slides the article across the counter as the clerk tilts forward suspiciously, scrutinizes the card, then rocks back on his heels.

“What is this?” The clerk eyes the card as if it were a dead roach, up-ended on its shell with legs in the air. Sam tries not to take an inordinate amount of offense.

“It’s my operator’s license. See? That is my name right there.” Sam points to his signature.

After a pause, “You own an automobile?” The man’s gaze flicks up over Sam’s head to fruitlessly search the streets for a parked carriage, then dart back to the license.

“I will. When I can afford one.” Sam drums his fingers on the counter, impatient to discover what Ms. Gunther has left him. “The effects?”

“Right, very well, then.” The clerk draws a latch-key out from under the desk, then disappears into a back room.

As he waits, Sam runs his gaze along the walls, landing heavily upon a forbidding set of steel doors, behind which the incoming cadavers must be stored. A shiver pinches his spine. Sam calls out, “So how did she pass?”

The Property Clerk re-emerges from the back room with an envelope in hand. He glowers, tipping towards Sam in that disconcerting manner of his. “If you were even remotely amicable with the deceased, you would know how she passed.”

Sam stands up straighter and says firmly, “I’m afraid not, sir.”

The man exhales, falling back in reluctant capitulation. “Suicide. Locked herself in her home and set it afire.”

The shiver returns in full and spreads over his skin, but Sam tries to conceal his discomfort for fear of arousing yet more mistrust from the spindly clerk. Nonetheless, when he reaches for the envelope, it is only with fierce determination that Sam retrieves it from between tightly grasping fingers.

Sam smoothes out the creases in the paper as he bids the man adieu, hastily exiting the morgue to brave the weather outside. The fervor of last night’s winds has hardly abated, and Sam is forced to stuff the envelope between his coat and vest for fear of letting his prize take flight like a bird.

Sam takes the trolley home, fingering the envelope even as he suppresses his curiosity until he can examine its contents at length behind the security of his own four walls. Finally, he reaches his stop and makes the short trek down Ivy Street before he’s back upstairs and seated at his writing-table. He eagerly withdraws the envelope from inside his jacket, sweeps a cursory look over its blank exterior, then messily slices through the short side with a blunt thumbnail.

Popping the pouch open in his hand, the thin edge of a card is revealed—Sam shakes it out onto his cleared desk-space and a carte-de-visite falls out.

The CDV features the photographed portrait of a woman, washed in sepia tones of cream and brown. Her skin boasts a feminine pallor and she appears lost in some reverie, her gaze diverted from the lens while her blonde locks are demurely pulled back in a neat chignon. She dons a gown with a high ruff collar and her shoulders are delicately sloped, sleeves opening into the wide bell shape that would become popular during the nineties.

Though Sam may not have been acquainted with any such Abigail Gunther, this woman—he fingers the bent cardboard corner of the CDV— _this_ woman he knows. This is a photograph of Mary Winchester…his late mother.

Strangely, this is not the first print of the CDV Sam has received. When family friend Caleb J. Warren suffered an automobile accident some six years prior, he’d left Sam this same carte-de-visite of Mary, in much similar fashion—sealed in an envelope and left for pick-up at the local police department. Caleb had hardly been a _bon ami_ of Sam’s, either; between his dead mother and absent father, Sam was surprised to find himself the unlikely inheritor of his mother’s carte-de-visite. And now—Sam appraises the photograph he holds—now, the unlikely inheritor of duplicates of said CDV.

Sam pulls open the lower-most drawer from his bureau and sifts through the miscellany—an emergency sewing kit, an old ascot given to him by a well-meaning friend, various crumpled papers—until, _aha!_ Sam spies his mother’s faraway expression peeking out from underneath a box of sealing wax. He wrestles it out.

Both CDVs now in hand, Sam compares the two. They are utterly identical, save for the battered edges that Caleb’s card bears—evidence of being jostled around in a notions drawer for several years.

He flips the cards around, finding matching company logograms (Slee Bro’s Photographers); however, on Abigail’s card, something is written in the upper right corner. The penmanship is nearly illegible where the black ink bleeds from swoop to swoop, as if scrawled in great haste. Sam gets up to stand by the window, scrutinizing the card in the sunlight, when its content becomes clear. The writing reads _Cappula Acodadura._

A puzzling phrase, certainly. While Sam does not possess the linguistic skill of, say, his childhood companion Ava Wilson, who commands the understanding of four disparate languages, he did learn his Latin well—well enough to come to the conclusion that this mysterious phrase is derived from no Roman legacy. There is not a decipherable prefix or suffix in sight, leading Sam to draw the conclusion that these words are nonsense—simply conjured at the whim of its author, perhaps a nick-name of sorts or a secret shared between confidantes, or lovers.

Only, it seems highly coincidental for this literary conundrum to appear alongside the equally perplexing one of Abigail Gunther—the mystery of who the deceased woman is, and how she came to know his mother. Caleb as well; what is the meaning of Sam’s inheritance of the seemingly arbitrary photographs? Oh, it could easily all be explained as mere luck, but as a lawyer, and moreover, as an orphaned son ever-desperate for trivia regarding his enigma of a mother, Sam will not tuck the affair away like some old, forgotten ascot or ruined handkerchief.

No, Samuel Winchester is a lawyer; the best of his kind. To come into identical photographs of Mrs. Winchester due to the wishes of near strangers, both of whom had met with the wrong side of fire (as did his mother, trapped in a burning building some twenty-odd years ago)—this is hardly the foodstuffs of coincidence.

Sam walks back to his desk, sweeps the papers off to the corner, then lays the cards out side-by-side. The twin expressions of his mother lead outside the frame, as she idly dreams of a future that will be cut too short.

Sam leans back in his seat and rubs his face. He has a busy day at the office ahead of him, but the week-end is thus far empty. Perhaps he ought to arrange time for a little research of his own.


	2. The Stranger at the Cemetery

_September 24, 1910. San Francisco, CA._

“ _Please,_ Sam, if you’ll be ever-so-kind as to inform me of the _precise_ reasoning for your choice of location—“ Ava cries, her normally charismatic voice lilting up to a slight hysteria. She hitches the picnic basket up to the crook of her inner elbow and lashes out with the other arm, violently displaying the bleak landscape. “A…a _cemetery!_ ”

Sam simply replies with a wide smile as he steers her towards the front gate of Laurel Hill Cemetery, the largest gravesite in the city of San Francisco nestled at the northern flank of Lone Mountain and home to a series of knolls that roll beneath tombs, mausoleums, and statues. Here, the brisk September weather has stripped the flora of much of its verdancy and beyond the painstakingly overseen lawns and occasional evergreen there remain only naked, skeletal trees and the fathomless expressions of marble angels. Hardly a desirable location for a picnic.

“Ava, darling. You know how unbecoming it is when you flail so. What would Brady say if he could see you now?” Sam lightly catches the wrist of his companion, then draws her in as he pats her hand. She opens her mouth to defend her long-term fiancé, Brady Gough, but Sam interrupts, “Now, I didn’t really come here for a picnic. How morbid do you think me?”

“But you _said—_ “

“I said I _fancied_ a picnic, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I had one in mind for our afternoon jaunt.” Sam adds, “Besides. If you knew of our destination, you wouldn’t have come.”

“For obvious reasons!”

Sam drags her over to the iron-wrought entrance, plastered smile never budging from his face, but even as he holds the gate open Ava stands her ground and makes a small cry of reluctance. 

Finally, he relents—pulls back and lets the gate clang shut, the sound reverberating through the wintry air. “Here is the thing, Ava. I have undertaken a personal project alongside my work, and for this project, I shall require your ravishing, beguiling ways.” 

Flattery will get a man anywhere, and Sam knows his childhood friend well. Predictably, Ava’s irritation recedes and she adjusts her hatpin, mollified for the time being. “If you had just _said_ so,” she huffs. “All right then, sir. What wicked thing shall you have me do this time?”

The task is simple—Sam merely wishes to examine the gravesite of Caleb Warren. His first attempt had proved unsuccessful; he had come to Laurel Hill a week prior, but his search had been quickly nipped in the bud. Police documents failed to disclose the minor detail that the Warren mausoleum is available for visitation solely by members of Warren descent. Caught off guard, Sam had been promptly turned away…

Turned away, perhaps, though not empty-handed. Before leaving, Sam had dutifully observed the profile of the cemetery caretaker—young man (only a bit older than Sam), unmarried (ring-less fingers), with a weakness for the fairer sex (if his leniency on the young, flustered lady asking about burial appointments proves to be a habit)—the perfect candidate to be recipient of Ava Wilson’s talent for persuasion, which has been honed to an art form over the years. This latest entreaty of Sam’s is but another on the long list, accumulated over the entirety of their friendship, as he has called upon her help many a time. Sometimes, all it takes is a woman’s touch.

Sam quickly explains the situation to her as they pass through the gate—“I need to see the tomb of Caleb J. Warren. You’ll have to affect kinship with the man, perhaps a niece or distant cousin?”

“I’ll be fine, dear. Now would you take this basket for me? I shall hardly look convincing with sandwiches and lemonade, if I am to play the distraught cousin.”

Ava transfers the basket—heavier than it looks, as Sam fumbles with the handles—before she shoos him aside, hissing, “Get back, the clerk will _recognize_ you!” Sam promptly moves out of sight as Ava musses the curls framing her face, tips her hat to an ungainly angle, then trips into the office with a fling of the door. Sam hears snatches of loud, furious French before the wooden door closes behind her.

Like clockwork, she leaves the office triumphant with the caretaker in tow, who struts about like a pompous peacock as he jangles the keys to the mausoleum in one hand and grandly gestures about the lot with the other, no doubt imparting some great wisdom. Sam shoves the wicker basket into the shadow of a large, weeping angel and ducks behind it, then tentatively peeks out from behind a marbled wing. Beneath Sam’s fingertips, the stone is icy to the touch.

He watches the two small figures recede into the distance as Ava follows the caretaker up the crest of the hill to an ominous stone construct, within which the Warrens have laid their bones for nearly a century. Sam climbs after them, eyes riveted on Ava and the caretaker as they carry on an inaudible conversation. The man unlocks the wooden door—Ava gestures wildly, nearly smiting him across the face, before the man finally ducks his head in deference and turns to leave. _Perfect._

In less than five minutes, Sam is once again beside his friend. “Incomparable talents, as always,” he praises as Ava throws back a cocksure grin—utterly unfeminine, yet charming all the same. Sam steps off the trimmed grass and onto the stone platform—“Are you coming, dear?”

“I should hope that was not an attempt at humor, Mr. Winchester, because if it was, you leave me utterly un-amused. Of course I am not coming. I’ll stand watch, or have a picnic here by myself, or anything you like so long as I don’t have to step foot in—“ Ava shudders dramatically. “A moldy room full of rotting _corpses._ ”

“If you insist—“

“Which I _do._ ”

“—I shall be right back,” Sam smiles jauntily before descending down the stairs that lead underground.

The brittle sunlight quickly splinters into darkness in the small mausoleum. Luckily there are no paths or halls to lose oneself in—as far back as Warren roots may extend in American history, it is easy to forget that officially, the New World is not yet even two centuries of age. Consequently, there are really only a handful of coffins for Sam to peruse.

In truth, Sam knows not of what he hopes to discover—some insight, perhaps. Some _clue_ as to why Caleb J. Warren and Abigail Gunther had chosen to bestow him with his mother’s youthful portrait. The possible explanations insofar do not add up on paper, but here—twelve feet underground in this ice box of a room, the smell of earth and decay permeating the stagnant air—perhaps here, Sam will find the answer; or a breadcrumb directing him onwards, at the very least.

Seven or eight coffins clutter the space near the entrance before dropping away to a series of unoccupied pedestals, clearly meant for the continuation of the Warren legacy. It is dark below ground and the unlit torches lining the walls invite a match or portable lighter to ignite them—accessories that Sam is dismayed to find himself devoid of. Nonetheless, the wan light wafting down the stairs is sufficient to make out the engravings on all the stone lids.

Sam easily finds what he is looking for—it is the furthest coffin from the front but identical to the others in its simple, unadorned concrete. Rounding the monument, Sam blinks into the darkness as he strains to read the inscription:

  
Here lies brother, son, and beloved  
CALEB JOSEPH WARREN  
March 27, 1863 - June 18, 1904

_Bailecito Afrailase_  


Immediately, the indecipherable words that adorn the bottom of the engraving leap out at him. They adhere to no language Sam is familiar with, and the simple mockery of them is beginning to frustrate. Perhaps though, his linguistic prodigy of a friend can recognize something in them.

“Ava, dear,” Sam calls out, immediately wincing as his voice thunders through the tiny, somber space and reverberates off the coffins of the dead. The echoes eventually give way to a dull, frozen silence so thick, it feels as if Sam had uttered nary a peep. Still, there is no response—where _is_ the foolish girl? Ignoring her for the moment, Sam turns away from the entrance and concentrates on the mysterious words, committing them to memory so he can leave the increasingly claustrophobic space and deliberate over them under the grace of the open sky and sun. 

Sam shuts his eyes, mentally repeating the words, and takes care not to leave anything remiss—one letter could make all the difference between a viable lead or a dead end. When he re-opens his eyes, Sam suddenly notices a lone, charcoal-coloured rock sitting atop the coffin—it must have eluded him earlier. Frowning, Sam first drags a finger across the concrete lid, rubbing the powdery dust between his forefinger and thumb, before picking up the small rock to examine it more closely. Sam gingerly tosses it in his hand, feeling the weight of it—heavy and flat, ideal for skipping; but more tellingly, it’s _clean_. The rock is entirely devoid of the thick layer of grit that sleeps inside the Warren mausoleum.

Apparently, Sam is not Caleb’s only recent visitor. The thought unsettles him.

Behind Sam, a loud scuff of shoes grates over his ears and startles him to attention—there’s the quiet sound of someone breathing, low and evenly.

“Ava?” he asks cautiously. A palpable flutter grows in his gut but Sam savagely pushes it aside—he will admit to no such shortcomings in his mental constitution. He gathers his resolve and turns around.

Before him stands a man. It is difficult to discern any ostensible features but clad in an unbuttoned sack with contrasting waistcoat and trousers—the well-worn ensemble perilously near the end of its tether— the shadowed figure holds himself unnaturally rigid and straight-backed, swelling to full stature in the manner of a frog puffing up in aggression. The stranger steps forth.

“Who are you?” he demands, his tone unpleasantly brusque.

“My name is Sam—might I ask the same of you?”

“No,” the man says plainly. He takes another step forward in a threatening manner. “What are you doing here?”

The back of Sam’s heel hits the wall and the realization of their declining distance exacerbates the flutter in Sam’s stomach. He quickly slides out and unconsciously edges towards the paltry sunlight, which bleeds over the staircase in a dim halo. The stranger only presses closer, but at least from this angle Sam will back into the exit that leads above ground—a prospect that increases in appeal the nearer the stranger encroaches.

At this point—the man reaches behind his coat, grasping for Lord knows what—Sam is positively praying to be forced outside. He says nervously, “I was here to pay respect to an old, erm, a great-aunt of mine.”

Eyes immediately fasten to Sam’s left hand—Sam clenches his fist and is surprised to feel the warmed rock still in his grasp. He quickly shoves the article deep into the pocket of his coat, but the narrowed gaze of the man—now transfixed on Sam’s pocket—leads him to believe that the stranger harbors no delusions of the true recipient of Sam’s visit.

Thankfully, he refrains from pressing the issue. Sam kicks into the bottom step of the staircase and throttles a sigh of relief. But before he turns to escape, an unexpected urge to fully see the stranger takes over. Sam squarely looks up.

Their eyes seize. The thin illumination washes the man’s skin to an eerie pallor, but the sun-derived freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his straight nose connote a deficiency in the lighting quality, rather than in the man’s inclination for the outdoors. Sam abruptly notices the intensity in the man’s eyes—eyes that widen to almost comical levels as green, crystalline irises track across Sam’s face. He feels warmth rise to his cheeks as the scrutiny continues—Sam quickly balks at his own weakness, knocking self-consciousness aside as he resolutely presses forward. He gathers up to his full height and glowers at the stranger, taking indiscriminate pleasure in the advantage that two or three inches lend him.

“I have given you my name, good sir; it is only proper in any civilized situation that you return the favor,” Sam demands.

Where politesse had failed, assertiveness takes up the slack. The stranger blinks owlishly at Sam, as if not used to having his height—or crude manners, for that matter—challenged. “I—my name…”

The stranger shakes his mind, clearing it from its stupor, and his deplorable etiquette returns with a vengeance. He swings in, ferociously near so that their noses are nearly touching, and growls, “Never mind my name. Now clear off—I got here first.”

The warmth from the man’s breath feels hot against Sam’s face, but refusing to retreat, Sam firmly juts his chin out, all but knocking the sneer off the stranger’s mouth. “My dead great-aunt wishes to see me,” Sam says impudently.

The sound of rustling fabric moves through the air and without warning, Sam feels the point of something sharp dig against his stomach.

“I can arrange that,” the stranger says with a brass-necked smirk. The concealed blade insidiously inches forth, the tip of it nudging through the woven twill of Sam’s waistcoat and pricking at bare skin.

While Sam may fancy himself an intrepid man, he has no qualms about quailing before a knife that is one layer of skin away from drawing blood. “Perhaps some other time,” he replies, backing off accordingly.

The confrontation quickly de-escalates. The stranger relaxes, tucking his weapon—short, gleaming dagger with a leather hilt—into the back of his belt, then covers it with a deft sweep of his ill-fitting jacket. Reluctant as Sam is to turn his back on the dangerous man, he does so nonetheless, scraping his dignity up the stairs as he ascends into the bleak, wintry sunlight.

Though Sam leaves the rude, unfathomable stranger behind in the Warren mausoleum, he does take this with him—the strange words, _Bailecito Afrailase._

 _Cappula Acodadura. Bailecito Afrailase,_ Sam muses. These phrases mean nothing to him, but perhaps his good friend Ms. Wilson can demonstrate her usefulness once more.

He locates her some distance away, her large, fashionable hat standing out as a beacon of white against green grass and grey tombstones. Feeling a spot of remorse for leaving a genteel lady such as Ava—a betrothed lady, no less—alone in a cemetery, with naught but a full picnic basket to keep up appearances, Sam hastily joins her. The day’s adventure closes with Sam’s heartfelt promise for a more entertaining plan the following week-end, and Ava accepts it graciously.

\-----

Home is where Sam finds himself prisoner to his own relentless thoughts—the plight of the intellectual, as some of his colleagues have put it, though for Sam, a kinetic mind had always seemed more blessing than burden.

If only Sam could back-pedal through time and berate his former, naïve self; he understands the truism now, in all its horrendous glory. Plight indeed—Sam had never been so accosted by his own mind as he has been for the past week or so. 

The words— _Cappula Acodadura, Bailecito Afrailase,_ like a mantra—have offered nothing in the ways of enlightenment. During the buggy ride from Laurel Hill Cemetery to the Wilson estate in Pacific Heights, Sam had transcribed them for Ava on a loose piece of paper; she has since informed him of her college-educated conclusion that the words are derived from no existing language. Thus, Sam has made no further progress on that front.

In fact, the entire investigation of his mother and her deceased acquaintances has braked to a lurching halt, despite its claim on a sizeable portion of all his waking thought. The rest of Sam’s preoccupation, however… if he is to give voice to un-articulated imagery (and credibility to that crack-pot, Sigmund Freud), it is something else entirely that truly engulfs him.

Allowing for the moment the plausibility of Freud’s “dynamic unconscious,” Sam ought to re-examine the manifestation of the vivid, emerald eyes that appear to him behind closed lids—alongside the phantom nip of a sharp dagger against his belly—over and over again, in dizzying, centripetal repetitions. It has become so entrenched that when Sam casts his memory to that chilly day at the cemetery in hopes of stumbling over some as-of-yet unturned stone, the events fall away to dreary depths and all that is left is where he began—a peculiar sensation, as if Sam is teetering on the precipice of something truly in-alterable, and the green gaze of a stranger which, much like the entirety of this entangled debacle, contained something odd. Something _off._

Having ruminated upon this at length, Sam has since deduced the particular quality of that gaze that nags him so: it was the recognition he saw in it. Not right away, no—initially the man’s demeanor was as guarded and armed as a fortress. But upon Sam’s delivery of a strong rebuke, that wall came tumbling down. He’d met Sam’s glare and it was as if a lever had been pulled—his eyes had widened, the man’s coquettish, thick lashes curled so high they nearly skimmed his own brow ridge—and he’d _recognized_ Sam.

It makes not a whit of sense, of course. But in Sam’s defence, as of late, _nothing_ has been making sense. At the end of the day, Sam is grasping at air—nostalgic portraits and nonsensical codes; eerie coincidence in the fiery deaths of three friends, and behind it all, if Sam is willing to admit it to himself, the driving force of an unpalatable but desperate need of a son for trivia on a mother he never knew. It is almost tragic, when Sam stops to think about it—tragically pathetic for a grown man who had hardly needed the support of his mater in his formative years to make a fair living for himself, to suddenly require her now.

It is quite ludicrous—the whole thing. Truly, the most logical step for Sam to take is to put this flight of fancy behind him, and to concentrate on more important matters at hand; for example, the Cavallo case he had agreed to take on at the beginning of the week. 

Sam warily eyes the relevant stack of documents that peeks out from his despatch-case. Making up his mind, he quickly reaches in and pulls the bundle out, slapping it down on the wooden table.

Despite his disinclination to prepare for the morrow’s day at the office, it is not so terrible as Sam makes it out to be in his mind. Before long, he has studiously partitioned the documents into two neat piles—work done and work to-be-done, respectively.

Outside, the sun is setting and it is growing dark. Through the clear-paned window that oversees the streets of Ivy and Octavia, where the neighbor-hood children play until the last dregs of sunlight drain away, gentle swirls of wind sneak underneath the window-sill and lazily stir the papers on Sam’s desk into a graceful sprawl. He absentmindedly picks up the nearest paperweight with which to pin them down—

Upon realization of what he holds, Sam jerks his hand back, dropping the rock onto his wooden table with a dull double-bounce. Almost guiltily, he stares at the object—it feels as if it is looking back at him. Regarding him, _accusing_ Sam of ignoring it, and everything the rock stands for…

The worrying thing is—Sam leans back in his chair and studies the rock, idly rubbing at his lower lip with a finger— Sam is beginning to feel that he, too, recognized the stranger from the mausoleum. It is not some epiphany that struck him serendipitously, as Newton’s apple had two centuries prior, but has incurred in a more insidious fashion—the concession creeping into Sam’s mind and latching on with quiet tenter-hooks. There remains no other explanation for the ease in which the stranger has invaded Sam’s mind—if not the man himself, there must have been some attribute he exuded that resonates within Sam because this preoccupation—this wholly unnatural _fascination_ with the stranger nearly warrants more of an investigation than even the death of Mary Winchester and her companions.

Downstairs, the front door slams shut with unnecessary force, shaking the apartment building from the ground up, through its wooden studs, and into Sam’s study. Startled, he snatches up the rock and shoves it into his notions drawer, banging it closed before the walls have time to finish their shivering.

With bated breath, Sam listens as clumping shoes make their way up the stairs, slowly and deliberately—each stair groans under the weight of its burden. Soon, next door, a latch-key is impatiently jostled into its lock, eventually giving way to the sound of a door teasing its hinges before it resolutely swings shut. It must be Mr. Clark, home from his day at the Bank.

Sam lets out a strained breath, chuckling at his own paranoia. Though he doesn’t quite know what to make of his jittery disposition, if it means that the infernal rock is out of sight (and hopefully, out of mind), he can finally attempt to get back to work. At noon to-morrow, his client will be knocking on his office door—it will simply not do to be unprepared.

Sam bows his head, locates the sentence at which he had been interrupted, and picks up where he left off.


	3. The Revisitation

For as long as Sam can remember, the months of Winter have held an unrivalled allure for him. It is not due to some aversion to the other three Seasons—only a dour individual (or hypochondriac) could ignore the gaiety that Spring heralds, and only a melancholic soul (or albino) could resist soaking up the warmth of Summer. No, Sam’s love affair with the icy maiden of Winter stems from something else entirely.

Outside the west façade of Trinity Church, Sam flips the lapel of his wool overcoat up to cover his bare neck—over the course of the week, the temperature has nose-dived from a brisk forties to a bone-cold fourteen degrees Fahrenheit. With severe weather comes severe attire—long overcoats and thick scarves, leather gloves and stiff felt derbies—and this is why Sam loves Winter.

No, not the apparel, of course; the layering. The _subterfuge_. Beneath piles of wools and tweeds, herringbone and pinstripe, he holds his cards close to his skin where his true self lurks—orphan and street urchin. Then, a lifetime of unintentional, but successful social climbing.

By contrast, during the warmer seasons the only defence Sam has for camouflage in Society is his long hair in his eyes and the hunch of his shoulders—flimsy indeed. His white-collar affectation is paper-thin and at times, Sam feels as if his colleagues and co-workers can peer through him and detect the true colour of his blood. Thus, when Winter dawns and the coats come on, his dirty secret becomes that much safer. No one will have to discover that he is root-less—retainer of only hazy memories, soft and fragile as translucent chiffon, of a mother, and a father; of something _important_ , too, that Sam can never quite grasp…

A luxuriously-dressed couple streams past Sam, bumping him out of his reverie. Recovering quickly, he plunges gloved hands into his pockets and follows them up the steps of the cathedral, shrugging into the wide shoulders of his coat.

As he moves into the foyer, tendrils of chill float off his person and Sam shakes it off, embracing the warmth of the nave. Once inside, he walks up to the front pew and greets Mrs. Wilson awkwardly, bent at the waist as she half-rises for _bisous_. He then pauses, unsure of where to seat himself while the usher busily attends to another guest. On the one hand, he may be expected to join her, as he remains extremely close with the Wilson family—only natural, considering that after Sam and Ava proved inseparable at the tender ages of six, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson had treated him almost as if he were their own, despite Sam’s occupation of a vastly different rung on the social ladder (less polite company would call it “gutter-snipe”). On the other hand, Sam’s relationship with the Wilsons had never been so official as to have produced adoption papers or the like, and after riding upon their benevolence and hospitality until a mature sixteen years of age, Sam had promptly fled the borrowed nest and moved to Palo Alto to attend university. 

This unsure delineation of his role in the bride’s life puts him in a mild conundrum, but soon he settles for sliding into the pew behind Mrs. Wilson, and she turns around with a smile and begins to chat amiably with him. 

Before long, the first strains of Mendelssohn’s _Wedding March_ can be heard from the organ and with an excitable gasp Mrs. Wilson’s gaze shifts behind Sam, tears in her eyes as she beholds her only daughter, whose slim, satin-gloved hand rests daintily upon the crux of her father’s elbow. They proceed to walk down the aisle in slow, deliberate steps, and Sam settles back into his seat, allowing a surge of pride to course through him.

\-----

The ceremony is a beautiful one—naturally, seeing as how neither the Wilson family nor groom’s can hardly be accused of falling victim to fiscal woes (a fact dutifully emphasized by the alarmingly sizeable diamond that crowns Ava’s new wedding band). Therefore, it is only suitable that the procession is grand, the dresses exquisite, and the orchestra magnificent—an hour later, Sam is still enthralled by the studied perfection of it all.

The bride and groom have since left the church, and most of the attendees are loitering out front, preparing to embark for the reception by either horse buggy or automobile. Only Sam, and the odd couple or two, remain seated in the emptying pews.

In his seat near the front, Sam non-committally observes the altar, tracing across shapes and furnishings with a practiced eye. Not much has changed since Sam was here last, some ten, twelve years ago, during the short while he was under the care of Pastor Jim Murphy… 

After Mary Winchester had passed, his father vanishing soon after, Sam had run away from his shoddy orphanage at the age of six, determined to reclaim the family he had been denied—the simplistic logic of a child, admittedly. Asides from ephemeral dreams of a warm embrace and distant lullaby, Sam’s earliest memories consist of cold, sleepless nights in abandoned warehouses as he lived off scraps of leftover food, scavenged from piles of refuse in the manner of a mangy alley-cat. Luck would smile upon him, however; Sam quickly found a curious play-mate in the form of a young Ava Wilson, and consequently fell into the good graces of the magnanimous Wilson family. 

The Wilsons attended Trinity Episcopal Church—located in their neighborhood of Pacific Heights—bringing with them one day a scabby-kneed Sam, on the first of what would become many outings together. Luck would strike him once again, as the elder of the church, Pastor Jim Murphy, immediately recognized the child, despite his convincing costume of a young gentleman.

So the story goes, Pastor Jim had been close friends with John Winchester. Regardless of John’s consummate failure to provide for Sam, it would bitterly be by the grace of him that Sam was ultimately invited to live and grow under the patronage of the church for the short time before the Wilsons took him under their wing.

Sam blinks up at the indomitable cross that oversees the altar—an enormous, brass construct donated by St. Mary’s Guild—and with a pang of sentimentality, Sam decides to re-visit his other childhood haunts.

He stands up, knees popping loudly in the vast cathedral. Swinging around, he is bewildered to find the pews entirely evacuated—he must have lingered in his day-dreams for longer than it seemed. Undeterred, Sam observes his pocket-watch to guarantee that he has time to spare before the reception begins, then gathers his coat and derby in hand as he makes his way towards the back exit of the church.

\-----

Before Sam enters the parish house to visit his former living quarters, his arm is grabbed tight by an urgent hand.

It is Ashcroft McGinness—a sergeant of the San Francisco Police Department, and Sam’s old room-mate during college. Seeing as how Ashcroft, or simply “Ash”, as the young man prefers to be called, was as much a foreign specimen (hailing from all the way from Massachusetts) as Sam was (hailing all the way from the bottom of the great American caste-system), the two chaps got along magnificently, and have remained close cohorts over the years.

Ash was hired at the SFPD, where his sharp intelligence outweighed his eccentricities just enough to move him briskly through the ranks. Since then, he has been an invaluable resource for Sam in the several cases where police-classified information or dossiers, in exchange for perhaps an invitation to a genteel luncheon or afternoon tea with the more eligible ladies of San Francisco Society, proved to be an excellent business transaction.

The hold on his arm constricts, and Sam is forced to conceal a grimace. He swings his elbow out of the deathly grip and turns to face his friend.

“Must you always skulk so?”

“H’m! I don’t skulk, I _sneak_. Quite stealthily, too, I might add.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Sam humors him. “Now pray tell, to what do I owe the displeasure?”

Ash socks him in the bicep—quick-tempered, as always. Sam rubs at the sore spot as Ash recovers himself, straightening out the non-existent creases of his crisp charcoal uniform and adjusting the brim of his matching head-gear, before he fixes a stern eye upon Sam. “It concerns the matter in which you came to me with, a month or so ago. It’s been slow-going, I’m afraid. However, it seems to me you’re no longer in the market for such information, so I’d best be on my way—shouldn’t miss the reception, nor the complimentary food and drink—“

“Ash, you get back here!”

The young sergeant pays him no mind.

“All right, all right! I _apologize,_ ” Sam loudly concedes. Ash pauses in mock deliberation, then returns.

“Hmm…I do immensely enjoy contrition on your part, my good Samuel.”

“Duly noted. Now, do you have some information for me or not?”

Ash’s expressive countenance stiffens like a board, as he turns to all seriousness. In an uncharacteristically business-like tone, Ash remarks, “I’ll say this again. The files you wanted—your late mother, Abigail Gunther, Caleb Joseph Warren—it was slow-going. I don’t know what it is you’re sniffing out, my friend, but I’d advise you to exercise some caution. It took me an especially long time to obtain these three dossiers, because they had been removed from the archives by someone who knew precisely what he was doing. Even Ruth hadn’t a clue as to where they’d gone, and you know old Ruthie—sharp as they come, with a memory like an elephant.”

“You eventually found them though, right?” Sam asks in a stricken tone.

“Yes, in a fashion. It took much finagling on my part. I had to speak with Jack O’Connell, the Inspector on the Winchester case, to see the personal notes he’d taken during the inquest back in ’91. When I met with him, he stressed how queer your mother’s case was—that the facts never added up quite right. Same story with Warren; the old Superintendent told me this: ‘the evidence is all-too conclusive. Thus told, I daren’t believe nary a scrap of it.’ Strange sort of fellow, easy to dismiss as loony—“ Sam arches an eyebrow at this, but uncharacteristically, Ash doesn’t rise to the bait— “Still, in all his years, his hunches have been right on the money.”

Sam nods encouragingly, though in truth his fingers are itching to grasp and peruse said dossiers. As unstoppable as a barrel rolling down a hill, however, Ash continues:

“And oh-hoh!—the Gunther file,” he exclaims, evidently much amused by his own tale—“Clever of our little archive-raider, truly, but not clever enough to foil Sgt. Ashcroft McGinness. The Gunther file was purportedly lost by one of the department interns—a convincing yarn, seeing as how the lot of them are outrageous imbeciles. Either way, I took it upon myself to re-create the file, foolishly believing it to be a simple task due to its recent nature. However, in my efforts, I came across obstacle after obstacle—random, incidental things, that aroused my suspicion the more they occurred.”

Ash savors the tension of his story, waiting until Sam looks prepared to take his head off in impatience before at length, he brandishes the three, hard-earned dossiers with a flourish. “Et wallah!” Ash cries, as the folders are promptly snatched from him. “I devoted my lunch hours to this cause for over a _month_ , you know. Interviewing department secretaries, and nubile, lady interns. Profoundly nasty work, you know.”

“Yes, it must have been _so difficult_ for you,” Sam remarks drily, even as his nose is firmly ensconced in the crease between the Winchester folder. He skims quickly though, and before long Ash has been lavished with the praise he is so fond of, along with firm promises of access to the country club in Burlingame to which Sam belongs. Content with this initial offering, Ash blithely totters off to find transport to the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill, where Ava and Brady are holding their reception.

 _Good,_ Sam thinks. _No, not just good—this is **fantastic.**_ Emboldened by the sudden deluge of fresh reconnaissance, it is with a bounce in his step that Sam traverses the garden and enters the parish house, precious files tucked neatly beneath his arm.

\-----

His old bedroom—through the foyer and up a fold-out ladder—is smaller than Sam remembers. So much smaller, that he feels the attic fit for perhaps a mouse, but certainly not an adult; _certainly_ not for an adult of his considerable stature. Sam is forced to double over nearly in half just to squeeze in beneath the low ceiling.

Against the far wall, a chest of drawers drowns in books and leaflets; it must have been brought in after his departure, as Sam harbours no recollection of it. But other than that, and if one ignores the time-tempered illusions of scale, the room looks precisely the same as how Sam left it, all those years ago (give or take a few harmless layers of dust and cobwebs). The primary fixtures of the sloped, wooden ceiling, small four-poster bed, and dingy lamp atop the nicked-up night-table seem to be lifted directly from the annals of Sam’s mind, unchanged as they are. 

Stooped over, Sam scuffles to the bed and drops down upon it, waving off the ensuing billow of dust that threatens to overwhelm him. As the powder settles, he drinks in the view, allowing himself full cognizance of the negligible effect some two decades have pressed upon this small corner of the world. It is comforting, in a way, to know that not all things succumb to the fickleness of these fast-paced, modern times.

Sam absentmindedly runs a palm through his hair, jerking back when his knuckles bump into the wood above him. Though he has seated himself at the head of the bed where the ceiling is at its most accommodating, his hair nonetheless grazes the surface and sends an unpleasant, tickling sensation across his scalp. He huffs a breath, sets his files aside on the faded quilt, then curls all the way forward to rest between his legs, feeling a pull in his ham-strings that borders on the painful, albeit deliciously so. When he opens his eyes again, he’s peering upside-down into the deep space between the floor and bed.

The lighting is poor enough already in this single-window attic, and the far corners under the bed are utterly engulfed in darkness. From what he _can_ see, however, the wooden floor-boards are inhabited by excitable packs of lint—yet beneath them, obscured by thick blankets of grey fluff…

With a stark feeling of horror, Sam scrambles up and summarily bangs the back of his skull into the ceiling. Disregarding the throb, he gets down to his knees, then his hands, and jams his face towards the floor, squinting into the floor-boards with both fascination and dread.

Carved into the slats in crude, capital letters, is as follows:

ARMARIOLUM AMBIALET ARMARIOLUM AMBIALET ARMARIOLUM AMBIALET  
ARMARIOLUM AMBIALET ARMARIOLUM AMBIALET ARMARIOLUM AMBIALET  
ARMARIOLUM AMBIALET…

…and it continues thusly, centered directly beneath the bed in a concentrated, but stuttered bloom of words. The hand of it is clumsy, likening it to the work of a child, or a facsimile thereof; or perhaps, it is simply due to the unwieldy nature of a blade against dense oak that gives it its organic quality.

Sam feels his heart stick somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, and he makes a conscious effort to swallow it down, to breathe. It proves difficult. This writing—these deep, angry gashes—are most certainly not the product of Sam’s efforts, by any right. He would remember committing something so pathological.

But if not Sam, then who shall claim ownership? It seems hardly within the nature of Pastor Jim Murphy, nor of _any_ clergymen, for that matter, to produce such alarming defacement; and as far as Sam knows, there haven’t been any others to occupy this make-shift bedroom since his own presence. On the other hand—Sam frowns in thought—he has no guarantee of this detail outside of his own assumptions. 

Sam clambers up from the dirty floor, making a mental note to research whether or not the church has taken in any other unfortunate children since his own residency. He pats himself off, taking care to dislodge the great patches of lint from his knees and elbows before glancing back to the scarred wood, when he quickly realizes that in all the excitement, Sam had almost disregarded the most vital part to the discovery—the words themselves. 

_Armariolum Ambialet._ It is a natural conclusion that this is of relevance to his personal project; after all, the cryptic phrase slots in perfectly with the other two that Sam had uncovered during his investigation into the thorough enigma that surrounds his mother’s death. However, what is the significance of that puzzle appearing to him here, and now? What relationship does Mary Winchester have with this sad, lonely attic, off in the middle of Pacific Heights?

Comprehension swiftly descends upon Sam, and rightfully so; it is hardly one of the more complex riddles to plague him yet. He remembers— _Of course,_ he thinks—with soaking awareness that Pastor Jim Murphy was a friend of the Winchesters, much like Mr. Warren had been; like Abigail Gunther must have been as well, though Sam still has yet to uncover the precise nature of her accord with his mother. 

Not only is Pastor Jim’s telling friendship with Mary Winchester enough encouragement, there is a second morsel: he, too, had died by fire—furthermore, the case had concluded in a most unsatisfactory manner. The queerness lies in its contradicting facts—while the post-mortem categorically revealed that Pastor Jim had been burned to death, it had also been proven beyond a doubt that no such conflagration ravaged his surroundings—this very parish house, in fact.

If Sam could furrow his brow any further, it would obscure his vision. Instead, he rubs at his forehead, wincing at the soreness he feels there, then quickly decides on a change of tact. Sweeping a hand over his breast, he plucks out his fountain pen and deftly uncaps it, then falls back to the ground to re-examine the precise spelling of the coded words.

In his haste, Sam foregoes the hunt for spare paper. He balances himself on his elbows, pushing fabric up his left arm until his bare forearm is exposed as the most convenient writing surface available to him. Tongue determinedly stuck against his bottom lip, Sam carefully transcribes the words.

After the ink has dried, Sam packs his affairs away and leaves the parish house. He’ll have to stop by his own apartment before journeying to the top of Nob Hill, for as prudent as it is to be on time for his best friend’s wedding reception, it is more so that this crucial, newly-acquired information be kept at a safe distance from the careless hands of moneyed dipsos and flirtatious nymphs.

Sam hops aboard the closest trolley headed towards his neighborhood of Hayes Valley. At home he stows the precious dossiers away and copies the incomprehensible phrase from his arm onto a more permanent sheet of paper. Within minutes, he is back en route to the grand Fairmont Hotel, which is gaily rumoured to be even more stunning and opulent after its re-opening. Sam supposes he will simply have to see for himself.


	4. Wedding Reception at the Fairmont

“Ladies and gentlemen! Shall we begin—“ the _maestro_ raises his arm up with an open-faced palm as on-stage, instruments follow suit like puppets on strings— “the first dance!”

A voluminous swell of violins thus marks the commencement of a grand reception that echoes the matrimonial ceremony in its extravagance, then proceeds to consummate it ten-fold with the vim and excitement that comes inherent to such a symbol of modernity as San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel.

The evening trots along at a steady gait. Mr. Brady Gough and his luminous bride prove excellent hosts as they circle the Ball Room in graceful cadence, parlaying between guests and encouraging new liaisons—no individual is let awkward and idle, nor any coterie allowed to remain without fresh introductions at appropriate intervals—a marked effort, present in every Wilson event, to mix up a crowd that is more often than not all-too complacent.

To Sam’s impregnable wonderment, over the course of time between the last gala he’d attended and that of to-night’s, he has somehow seized the role as one of the more sought-after bachelors of San Francisco Society. This aberration may have arisen from the bit of information, circling the room in spirals as dizzying as those taking place on the dance floor, that Sam is—coming as a great shock to his person—in the market for a pretty, young bride to call his own. Seeing as how this information is unexcelled in its calumny, Sam would gladly amputate the limb of the culprit who has spread such slander; however, in the small club of San Francisco’s elite, rumours and gossip fly from rouged lips faster than a steam-powered engine, thus rendering any such tracking of information dismally moot. 

Nevertheless, this is the course of Sam’s evening: if not the flash of a pale, silk-stockinged ankle or the ever-so-subtle, lingering touch, it is the daring appraisal as a feminine prospect looks Sam up and down, sin dripping from her demeanor.

He has hitherto diminished such attacks of visual violation by buffering himself with fellow lawyers and associates. Unfortunately, the last peg of his defence—Archie Keates from just down the hall—excuses himself to greet an old chum, leaving Sam no choice but to fend for himself. Affecting nonchalance, Sam wanders over to the side of the room and leans against the nearest surface where he slowly nurses his drink, all the while plotting his Great Escape. However, his derriere has naught even time to warm the mirrored wall before a familiar voice cuts into his thoughts:

“Sam Winchester, _do_ pick up your long face off the floor and try to be gay, just for to-night?” Ava whisks into view, picking up her skirts as she marches steadily towards him. Sam quakes. “There are so many good men and women of Society for you to make connections with, that I should take it as a personal affront to my being should you return home prematurely, _sans_ a new client or associate, or more importantly, an influence from the fairer sex.”

“Ava, dear, I was considering no such thing,” Sam lies. His friend is not so easily fooled, however. She halts in front of him and tilts her face up to widen her fawn-like eyes in the lowest form of entreaty—the little devil knows precisely the effect this impresses upon the male species, and Sam is no exception.

“This is a momentous night for me, Samuel,” Ava pleads, melancholy permeating her speech. “I couldn’t possibly be happy knowing my dearest friend may very well seclude himself into an early hermitage while I’m off cavorting about my own business. It would be an utter failing on my part. I _do_ simply wish for you the same love and joy that I feel to-day, Sam.”

A dismissive, jocular remark rests at the tip of Sam’s tongue but as soon as Ava emits a long-suffering sniff, her eyes pooling with empathic pain, he cannot find it in him to ruin his best friend’s mood on the day of her wedding. He heaves a sigh and with it, a knowing sparkle graces her expression—Ava has succeeded once more, damn her feminine wiles. 

“Just _one_ introduction—“ Sam attempts, holding up a finger to emphasize his point, but Ava easily knocks his arm aside and takes it giddily.

“I know the _perfect_ —oh, you’ll simple _adore_ her, Sam, I just know you will!”

“Now look here, I won’t make any promises—“

Sam’s protestations slip away unnoticed as he is jostled through the crowd of well-dressed gentlemen and handsome women in every state of relation (and inebriation, as the hotel boasts a wide selection of liquors and wine). Corpulent businessmen cluster within their respective occupations; young ladies are paraded off their mother’s arms like porcelain dolls in splendid gowns of silk and chiffon. The more audacious young men and women gambol about in groups of mixed sexes, while neighboring persons watch on with ill-disguised suspicion. All the while, a lively mazurka continues un-ceasingly on the center floor, where couples spin around each other in perfect, lilting time.

Ava drags him across the room like so much luggage when a veil of brushed wool suddenly curtains over Sam’s face as an older woman spreads her arms wide in exuberance. He paws it off single-handedly, only to have Ava pull him headlong into a solid obstacle, wherein he trips over a beaded train of cloth and lands against said obstacle, hands braced against a distinctly feminine form.

“Oh, what is the meaning—!”

“Excuse me—“ Sam splutters, extricating himself from a tangle of limbs as he attempts—with mounting heat in his cheeks—to separate his feet from the mess that is the train of a lady’s gown. By the time he regains himself, however, his leather pumps have stamped her lavish robe with mud-brown tracks. Reluctantly, Sam raises his eyes.

The lady is clearly incensed. Her brightly rouged lips—almost scandalously so, were they not off-set by her ethereally milky skin—are twisted up into a sneer. Blue eyes spark at him, betraying volatile intelligence that demolishes the effect of her plump, attractive face by lending it a sharp severity. The woman opens her mouth to reveal straight, white teeth:

“Ava, darling, would you be so kind as to communicate the name of the fine fellow who has ruined my Worth commission? This way, I shall know precisely where to direct the bill of charge.”

Sam cannot decide whether he is appalled or intrigued by the quick-tempered mistress, so he settles for an odd mixture of both, even as he transmits a helpless look to Ava in hopes that she’ll take pity and defend him. He is perturbed, however, to find an embarrassed countenance on his friend’s face; Ava rarely loses her composure, yet in this instance she looks as sheepish as if she had stomped on the Parisien gown herself.

“I apologize profusely for the mis-hap, Jessica. I may have been over-eager in my haste to locate you through all the guests,” she explains with humility. Sam’s misgivings strengthen at his best friend’s words—Ava had actually been seeking her out?

“Are you informing me that I am to make the acquaintance of this long-legged clod?” 

Sam bristles.

“Good heavens, Jessica, we are in polite company, here. Now, this is my good friend, Samuel Winchester; the fellow I’ve been telling you about.”

A flicker of recognition loosens the tense muscles of the lady’s face. “The lawyer-friend?” she asks.

“Right, Sam practices law right here in the city,” she confirms, turning to him. “Sam, this is Jessica Lee Moore. She was a school-mate of mine, from college. She’s a sharp one, too—graduated top of her class, just like you.”

“What did you study, if may I ask?”

“Liberal law,” Jessica states, crossing her arms. “I specialize in women’s suffrage.”

“Oh,” Sam responds, wracking his brain for something more to add. Yet, no witty adage strikes him. He pockets his hands uneasily.

“I trust you not to scare the poor boy off with your radical ideas, Jess,” Ava smiles, even as she edges away, clearly preparing for her exit. “Nonetheless, I imagine the two of you could share some ideas, perhaps whip up a good, rowdy debate, since your interests lie in such relevance. Now—“ Ava ducks her head apologetically as the other two shoot her imploring looks, which she guiltily ignores— “Excuse me, dears, I must make the rounds. You know how it is.” With a flick of her skirt, Ava ducks into the crowd like a slippery fish.

In the ensuing breadth of her gaping absence, during which the orchestra finishes their number in an untimely silence, Sam clears his throat. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Ms. Moore.”

Jessica purses her lips, and only after an interminable pause that makes her displeasure entirely plain, does she lower herself into a wan curtsey. Sam sighs inwardly, bowing his head in return.

\-----

It must be the liquor. Then again, Sam has only had two champagnes and a Martinez…very well, it isn’t the liquor. Perhaps then, the cloying decadence of a thousand perfumes? Indeed, Sam’s sure of it now—the stuffiness of the Ball Room and its amalgamation of aromas has gone quite to his head, causing him to hallucinate so.

The thing is, Sam believes he perceived the Stranger (or so he has been labeled in Sam’s mind). In fact, were it not so wholly inconceivable, Sam would stake his reputation on it; he had spotted the recalcitrant man from the cemetery rather near-by, in the midst of dancing guests, and replete with a golden-haired partner of his own, who had been slim and boyish in build. For a brief moment they had been close enough for Sam to crane his neck for surety—however, with the progression of the waltz, the pairs had compulsorily danced apart, like spreading ripples in water. 

Sam frowns in thought, even as he turns and glides in time with the music, sweeping Jess along with him. Perhaps he is treating his optical slip with too much esteem; it would do well to remind himself that the enigmatic Stranger’s materialization is only the cumulative effect of airborne toxins clouding his senses. Why else would a grave-robbing scoundrel appear in this opulent house? All the same, the uncanny head of close-cropped hair (though properly slicked down, in this instance) and distinguished profile of a straight nose and strong jaw has Sam as fidgety as a buck. After a few more minutes of dance, during which Sam wracks his brain for all the permutations of chance that the Stranger could possibly turn up at Ava’s wedding reception, the mental strain of it becomes so tiresome that eventually, Sam resolves to identify the doppelganger of the evening, if only to put to ease his discomfited mind.

On the next half-turn, Sam hikes his eyesight over Jess’ high pile of curls and scans the dance floor in attempts to verify one of the following: he is either witness to a highly improbable circumstance, or simply in need of repose and a stiff drink to clear his mind of any further imaginary visions. Minutes later, his painstaking survey uncovers nothing but a stiff neck and Jess’ thinly-cloaked annoyance, so Sam, defeated, postulates that it is time for a fourth visit to the bar-tender come dance number’s end.

The orchestra’s rendition of _Blue Danube_ soon concludes to boisterous applause. While the musicians indulge in a hard-earned respite and guests enter, leave, and in general reposition themselves for the next dance, Sam places a hand at the small of Jess’ back and leans in close.

“Before I let the next gentleman in your dance card sweep you away, shall I fetch you an alleviator?” Sam asks. Jess considers for a moment, then nods demurely.

“I should like…” she halts, as if unsure how to proceed. She throws a hesitant look over to where her parents are seated with their friends from the club. “A cool glass of water will do,” she eventually finishes, with little enthusiasm.

Sam smiles, then says conspiratorially, “I’m having another Martinez myself—or actually, I think I’d prefer a Boothby this time around. You know, it would be simple as nothing to have the mixologist whip up two of them—could even ask for one in a water glass, if you like.”

His casual endorsement seems to do the trick; Jess lights up, her features becoming all the more attractive for it. “Well in that case, if it isn’t any trouble…”

A mustachioed man suddenly cuts in, apologetic. Noticing that the guests have stopped shuffling about on the floor in anticipation for the Viennese Waltz to commence, Sam quickly tells Jess where to locate him after the number has ended.

The arrangement works out perfectly. Sam had been grasping for an excuse to perch nearby and scrutinize the dancing couples for sign of the green-eyed guest in solitude without the stigma of seeming anti-social; with Jess’ Cocktail in hand, he shall look the part of a dutiful gentleman, and if all works out, the implicit presence of a female counterpart, absent as she may be, should be enough to keep even the more vulture-like of the women at bay.

At the bar in the front of the Ball Room, there is a bit of a wait while the two mixologists scramble to keep up with the latest wave of thirsty guests coming fresh off the floor. Sam patiently situates himself at the end of the counter, turning around and propping his elbows up as he faces the room to idly watch the partakers of the Viennese Waltz. If he is taking pause at each dark-haired coif or broad-shouldered fit of a coat, he means little by it—a search is a search, but Sam emphatically tells himself that if nothing comes by it, it is only to be expected, and not a matter of which to feel disappointment by.

A rude shove at his left shoulder displaces his quietude, and Sam spares a dirty look at the unheeding culprit before returning to the fanciful view. Nonetheless, another push comes from the other side—no doubt the product of over-eager men for their Cocktails and wines. While it nettles him, it seems hardly worth the effort of rebuking, so he overlooks it.

Over on the dance floor, the smoothly sailing figure of a man in his prime—hair just the right length—catches Sam’s interest. He straightens up to peer closer when a third shove, and what will most certainly be the _final_ shove, digs into his side in a manner that feels distinctly pointed. Sam whips around, hackles raised.

“Now look here,” he exhorts. “We’re all adults here, is it so beyond us to behave as such—“

His words sputter to a jarring halt when before him, the illustrious—and presumably corporeal—Stranger blinks up at him, bemused expression gracing his features. It is the strangest sense of discontinuity, however, in that the man before him stands transformed: he is now attired in a gentleman’s skin. Gone is the ill-cut, Sears Roebuck suit and with it its air of banality, only to be splendidly replaced with a fitted swallowtail coat, beneath which a white silk shirt provides brilliant contrast to his daring ascot, dyed a deep, suggestive red. An impeccably matching boutonnière—a simple red rosebud—is affixed to his lapel, completing the ensemble.

“Apologies—my left elbow seems to have discovered a liking for your side,” the Stranger says easily with a devious smile, as Sam frowns, absently rubbing the soreness on his rib-cage. It is a shame that the man’s new outfit does not come with a new set of manners.

“ _You,_ ” Sam finally musters out, accusingly. The situation is ludicrous—what earthly purpose would this ruffian have at a closed guest-list reception in the affluent neighborhood of Snob Hill? A swarm of nonsensical thoughts stampede to the forefront of his mind, preventing any sort of pithy or witty rebuttal, yet desperate to fill the expectant void, Sam angrily repeats, “ _You._ ”

Unfortunately, Sam’s elementary level of mud-slinging serves only to elicit unfiltered delight across the other man’s face, his eyes beguilingly sweet as he lights up in mute laughter. Sam frowns at the excessive mockery.

“Oh, that’s cute. That’s real cute,” the man chuckles, thumping Sam on the bicep with a strong palm, at which Sam acerbically snatches his arm back and glares. The man’s smile grows wider as he says, “There’s no need to get nasty, now.”

Sam ducks down, leaning close to the Stranger in order to ensure his audibility over the orchestra and din, and seethes, “What are you doing here? Are you following me?” The very thought of it strikes Sam belatedly, long moments after the words have left his mouth. In its wake, a tremor of panic travels through his chest, clotting his throat uncomfortably. “Oh Lord, you _are_ following me. Are you—does this have anything to do with the missing dossiers?”

As soon as the words fly out of his mouth, the Stranger’s emerald eyes sharpen with interest. Sam instantly regrets it, damn his loose tongue—he resolves to keep a tighter leash on his speech to-night, if the damage done is not yet irreparable.

“Missing dossiers? Sounds like quite the caper, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Stranger states, though the solemnity etched upon his brow references a deeper understanding than he lets on. 

“Never-mind, then,” Sam quickly replies. By a convenient hand, it appears to be his turn at the bar; with pointed dismissal, he turns his back on the Stranger and, finger raised at the bar-tender, orders a Boothby Cocktail (at which he is spared a dirty look and some mutter about the Palace Hotel)—hastily doubles the order when he remembers he is to supply Ms. Moore with one as well. He refuses to acknowledge the Stranger’s presence (never-mind that contrarily, Sam had spent the better portion of the last hour seeking him out). Irritated with the Stranger—and with himself for being so—Sam rucks his sleeves up and leans forward, elbows tight on the counter, to watch the bar-tender assemble drinks, with a concentration so fierce that a second Great Earthquake could swallow up the hotel, and still Sam would not tear his gaze away.

Not all the concentration in the world, however, could conceal the sudden pressure on Sam’s wrist as it is painfully jerked aside. “Oh, what now—?”

No verbal answer is communicated; instead, the Stranger pulls so hard that Sam is very nearly catapulted into an embrace. Yet it seems not Sam’s physical company that is sought after, but a closer inspection upon his left forearm where the scribbled words from his previous discovery remain in livid blue ink against Sam’s winter-pale skin.

“These words—where did you find them?” the Stranger demands.

“It’s no business of yours—I don’t even know who you are,” he flashes out bitterly, all the while attempting to reclaim his tightly ensnared arm. “Let—go—“

The hold is grudgingly released. Sam tugs his sleeve down over the words, yet he feels the Stranger’s lingering gaze like a burn.

“Look,” the Stranger eventually interjects. “If you tell me why you’ve got that written on your arm, I’ll…I’ll tell you my name.”

“I didn’t realize a man’s name substantiates collateral—if I had known, surely I wouldn’t have given you my own without a dollar or two, at the very least,” Sam says sarcastically. But he is ignored, for the Stranger remains occupied by the matter at hand. He points to Sam’s forearm and asks:

“The other ones—Do you have the other words?”

At this, a deep feeling of apprehension makes its way into Sam’s consciousness. With careful enunciation, Sam cautiously feigns, “Other words?”

Given a moment to weigh the veracity of Sam’s alleged ignorance, the Stranger flattens his lips in consideration—it only takes a moment for him to call Sam’s bluff. He surges forward and roughly grabs Sam’s shoulder, shaking him as he insists, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. If you know them—“

Quite suddenly, their heated discussion is interposed by the bar-tender, who appears from seemingly nowhere to lightly ask, “Is there a problem, sirs?” His eyes flit between the both of them as Sam looks about, noting that the two of them had, indeed, been causing a bit of a scene at the bar, if the wide berth they have been given is any indication.

“No, no problem,” the Stranger replies. A pregnant pause stagnates, so he goes on, “We’re having a little dispute concerning the…feminine variety—“ He leans in towards the bar-tender, conspiratorially— “A common mix-up in localities; this man’s wife found her way into my bed the other night. A purely platonic mistake, of course,” he explains, with a wink. The bar-tender relaxes visibly, nodding in the shared joke as he hands Sam two clear Boothbys.

“On the house,” he adds, with a sympathetic grin. In turn, Sam glowers at the Stranger, who only smirks in response.

Sam purses his lips. “If that’s everything, I’ll be leaving then.”

“Right, wonderful plan,” the Stranger agrees, deftly stealing a drink out of Sam’s hand as he grabs Sam’s elbow, steering the both of them towards an empty table; mid-trajectory, his mind apparently changes, and he marches them instead towards the back of the Ball Room, Sam swept along as he wrestles with whether he should break away— _it’s the principal of the matter_ , he thinks indignantly—or if he should capitulate and allow his curiosity to consume him.

He glances down—the Stranger’s fingers are pressed tightly against the skin of Sam’s inner wrist, visible where his sleeve cuff has ridden up. He feels his veins pump hotly against the thumb and curl of forefingers there.

It would be folly of Sam to refuse fresh information, he slowly reasons—the Stranger unexpectedly turns around, as if aware he is the subject of great cogitation, and Sam automatically jerks his gaze away from the hold on his wrist. He is spared only a suspicious look, yet it is no longer required, for Sam has decided that he will not fall prey to such arrogance as to spurn good intelligence simply on the pretense that it will bequeath him with some degree of righteousness. No, righteousness will come after—and _only_ after—Sam has uncovered the truth and returned legitimacy to his mother’s death.

The two men soon reach the white wooden doors that lead out to the courtyard, which give way to an unexpected shock of cold air—having been enclosed in a body-warmed room for the previous several hours, Sam shakes his head out like a stamping horse upon entry outside, drawing his jacket closer unto himself. The other man affects nonchalance—nonetheless, the minute shrug of his shoulders and slight tightening of his gloved fists do not escape Sam’s shrewd observation.

The courtyard is, unsurprisingly, barren of all others. On a warmer night, perhaps, this picturesque garden, with its carefully-tended seasonal blossoms, lovely stone seating, and its commanding water fountain, off which the bright moon is reflected in its kinetic surface, would play host to any number of romantic couplings; but for the moment, only the mystifying Stranger proves brave (or stupid) enough to subject them both to probable pneumonia at the risk of being overheard indoors.

Ringing laughter, orchestral cadence, and all other auditory signals of the lively party that progresses behind fallen-shut doors collapse to a redolent murmur, and only the crisp splashing of the water fountain remains. The brisk, inert air only serves to magnify all noise, causing a lurid fit of self-consciousness to slowly, suffocatingly, wrap itself around Sam. Rather desperately, Sam breaks the oppressive silence to ask, “What are we doing out here? The mercury is supposed to dip below twenty to-night, and neither of us have our overcoats.”

The other man sets his drink down on the flat of a marble bench. He answers, “Look, Sam, let’s just cut to Hecuba. I know what you were doing at Caleb’s tomb, the other day. I know you’ve noticed the words. Now, I just need you to—“ He pauses, licking his lips, before continuing, “The third set of words—do you have them or not? Tell me the truth.”

“I…” Sam falters. He has too little information with which to fully understand the situation he has unwittingly stumbled into. For the first time in a very long while, Sam is ill-equipped—he lacks his research. The simple act of _knowing_ , which has been his comfort at all other times of uncertainty, is painfully absent at this juncture. Still, he has no choice but to scramble with what reconnaissance he has obtained:

Of everything he knows, at the very least, is the fact that what he has stumbled upon is no trite affair. What began as a windy night’s telegram has unraveled into an impenetrable web of intrigue, and Sam is no blithe idiot; he realizes that he is treading dangerous waters, meddling with dangerous men—men who have already proved themselves capable of murder. It would be unwise to place trust in any-body, much less the highly questionable character that is the chameleonic man from the mausoleum who stands before him.

At length, Sam answers, “No, I have not come across any such triplet; just the two phrases—Mr. Warren’s, and the words you saw on my forearm. Now, would you mind telling me what this is all about? I think I deserve to know.”

The Stranger appraises Sam, large eyes sweeping his frame up and down, before exhaling noisily out his nostrils. He says, “All you need to know is to stay away from this.”

“It’s too late for that. My mother—Mary Winchester was my _mother,_ ” Sam replies passionately. “There is not a chance in hell you’ll find me backing away, tail between my legs, just because you told me to. Now, if you truly care for my safety, then _tell me what is going on._ I’m not useless; I can aid you in whatever it is you seek.”

“The final code, then?” 

Sam takes a deep breath at the man’s admission—so they _are_ codes. No doubt precious ones, if the related acts of murder have anything to contribute. The Stranger, impatient at Sam’s dithering, clarifies: “In exchange for what’s going on. I’ll tell you what you want to know, if you give me what I want.”

Sam’s eyes darken. He is tempted to ask—the words teeter at the tip of his tongue: _What is it that you want?_ This is not the time, nor the place, however, to play mind games that are entirely dreamt up from within the chambers of Sam’s own cranium. He replies simply, “Fine. I shall divulge Abigail’s code. But first, it’s only proper…”

The Stranger reads his intentions, then deflects it easily. “My name is of no matter to the situation at hand. Now, say, if you wanted to know who’s behind the murders, I could tell you that. I can tell you what the codes unlock, or how they came to be. I can perform any ilk of these services, if you’ll only beg the right questions.”

If there is any hint of personal invitation—of lidded eyes fixated on the downturn of Sam’s mouth, or the double-entendre insinuated through roughly-spoken words—Sam decides, firmly, that now is not the time to indulge. In all likelihood, he is alone in perceiving anything beyond what is at face value. And so, he asks: “What do the words mean?”

The Stranger visibly relaxes, seemingly partial to discussing murders and codes over personal bavardage. “They mean nothing by themselves. But there is a song…a lullaby…” he trails off, recalling this silent song within his own ears. “If you know the lullaby, and the three codes—you know where to find him.”

Well, now. Now they’re getting somewhere. Sam takes a smile from his drink, relishing the heat that unfurls from his belly, and encourages, “Him…who?”

“ _Him._ The…the demon.”

“The demon?” Sam says doubtfully.

“This is why I wanted you to have no part of it—“ the Stranger suddenly cries, with vehemence. “You don’t understand, Sam. This isn’t one of your…your _cases_ from work. This isn’t a game. You open this up, there’s no going back.”

“All right then, so there’s no going back,” Sam agrees. Eager to douse the flicker of challenge so evident in flaring green eyes, he resolutely steps forward and stares straight down into the unblinking depths, refusing to be cowed.

The Stranger blinks first. His lashes paint long shadows across his cheekbones. When he re-opens his eyes, pupils dilated in a thin ring of emerald, Sam braces himself for a truth that he is fairly certain that he is not ready for.


	5. An Intruder in the Night

Sam is in a spot of trouble—and what a LARGE spot, it is.

“How could you _leave_ her there? I’ll say, if the poor girl discovers the mind to box your ears, I’d leave her to it— _sanction_ it, even—oh, Samuel John Winchester, you _frightful_ thing!”

“I told you, I can explain—“

“The way she waited for you—beautiful girl like Jess, she was simply tragic in that exquisite, tattered Parisian dress—and she stayed true to you, wouldn’t join the next two numbers for fear she would miss your return, and still you _never showed._ ”

“—I feel horrid about it, I do!”

Ava’s fawn-like eyes turn irrepressibly doleful. “The things people were _whispering_ …especially after the way that little blonde thing chased after you and your friend…” She shakes her head sorrily. “Why Sam, I’d be forced to sever ties with you from the humiliation of it all…”

“You’re just being ridiculous, now.”

“…were Jess not so gracious so as to permit you the chance to make it up to her, post-date.” Her expression turns impish, the corners of her lips tweaking into a feline smirk. “That’s some overture. You must have made _quite_ the impression, Mr. Winchester.”

Ava’s abrupt transition in temper—wild-eyed fury galloping headlong into suggestive, coy pleasure—takes the bluster out from his sails and Sam, always a half-step behind the force of nature that is his best friend, is left gaping irrelevant defenses to the wind.

In the vocal lull, Ava is only all-too happy to fill him in on the details. As it turns out, plans have already been drawn up for the four of them—poor Brady has somehow been suckered into yet another transparent excuse for Ava’s match-making—and Sam, Jess, and the Gough newly-weds are to enjoy a casual after-work dinner, set for Thursday the following week.

“Be sure to confirm it with her after you get home,” Ava prattles cheerfully. “Or better yet, you can stop by the Western Union and wire Jess right away. She’ll appreciate the promptness, I’m sure—it would do well for you to demonstrate some capability of this virtue, after all.”

“All right, Ava, there’s no need to nag! You have a husband for that sort of activity now.”

Ava huffs a world-weary sigh. “I’m sure you find yourself very droll.”

Sam laughs in return, the sound loud and clear, and victim to it, Ava surrenders with a little smile of her own. She slaps him on the arm, crying, “Don’t make fun! I’m entirely serious here. You better not muddle this chance!”

“I won’t, old girl. I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

A waitress politely interrupts them, and Sam and Ava eagerly lean back in their chairs to accept a tiered tray of delicacies alongside their steaming cups of coffee. At the Old Poodle Dog, the pre-eminent bastion of French cuisine in a Bohemian city of gourmets, the two friends enjoy their late lunch at its revivified location (one of the seemingly thousands that spring up by day, like phoenixes from ashes, each gaily victorious with their red bannered heralds of some Specialty this, or some Famous that). Here in the latest incarnation of the restaurant, Sam clears his plate with aplomb, before contentedly chasing it with incomparable French coffee that he slowly relishes upon his tongue.

All too quickly, the meal is over; the two friends find themselves with a hurriedly bused table and no choice but to pass on their seats to the rumps of street-weary patrons. At the front of the restaurant, Sam hails a buggy for Ava before moseying down the lane for his own transport when luck has it, the trolley rolls into view just ahead. A hasty hoof to the car lands him a tight squeeze near the back, and Sam is verily on his way home to Ivy street.

\-----

At his apartment building, Sam is greeted by Charlie, the stodgy old door-man who has been watching over the edifice for decades, like a loyal dog to its master. 

Wordlessly, Charlie hands over a cream-coloured card. His jowls lift into a sort of grimacing smile that Sam weakly returns as he takes the card, before turning and making his way up the stairs. He flips the card over—printed is: _Jessica Lee Moore_ in tasteful script, followed by her address in the lower right corner. Sam stops, considers for a moment, then turns right around and marches outside as old Charlie regards him with disinterest.

The Western Union is but a five minute’s jaunt from his apartment. There, a punctilious reply is wired to the Moore home, and with it ends the leg-work Sam is expected to supply.

By the time Sam returns home, he finds the limited nature of the day’s longevity in profound assertion. The apartment is low on light, the furniture throwing haphazard shadows into crist-crosses of black. Surfaces glow in the sunken sun, in vivid hues. 

Sam quickly sheds his topcoat, jacket, and waistcoat, tossing them unceremoniously over the tall rack in the corner where they catch on the arms and hang like willow. His homburg follows, snagged on the millinery knob peeking out from beneath wools and felts. With efficiency on his mind, Sam rolls up his sleeves and heads to the washroom, where he prepares a tub of hot, soapy water that will support him in diminishing the pile of neglected laundry that sits in his closet. Loth as Sam is to spend the remainder of his Sunday up to his elbows in dirty suds, the idea of embracing the work week with naught but third-worn shirts and street-dusty suits appeals to him even less—and so, he lugs his linen hamper into the washroom and plunges into the chore.

Night falls precipitously, and without remorse. Sam wrings out the last of his laundry—black dress pants, worn only once for Ava’s wedding, which were still relatively clean but for the spilled drink on the front rise—hangs it up to dry, and calls it a day.

And indeed, the day-time has truly passed on. The evening, however, is in itself an entirely separate beast.

\-----

His name—the Stranger, that is—his name was Dean.

Sam rolls onto his side and stares at the wall. He can hear the methodical _drip, drip_ of his hanging laundry on the other side and thinks of how it will feel the morrow, damp and clammy against his skin…

…not unlike the night at the Fairmont, when Dean had delivered the entirety of his drink across the front of Sam’s trousers and down one pant leg, with such perfect inconvenience that it suggested some celestial ploy (Lord, the _snickers_ he was subject to).

 _Dean,_ Sam muses, holding the sound of that word behind his teeth. Dean, who’d only spilt his drink due to it being knocked from his grip when Sam charged him, only to be wedged apart by that flouncing blonde, Jo (unfortunate owner to an ugly, mannish nick-name). Later Sam would learn of her designation in full: Joanna Beth Harvelle, but upon first meeting he’d stood statuesque, shocked both by the wet freeze at his groin, and in equal parts by the scene that unfurled before him—Jo’s thin arms wound around Dean’s neck in a salacious embrace, cooing his name most intimately.

Coincidentally, this was the manner in which Sam learnt of the Stranger’s hitherto unattainable prenomen. And while this information is surely coveted, it is hardly the sole bounty he’d brought home that night—quite the opposite, in fact. After all, the things Dean had _said…_

\---

“You open this up, there’s no going back.” Challenge paints itself across Dean’s face, as if the possibility exists that Sam could turn away now.

Sam steps forward and calmly says, “All right then, so there’s no going back.”

And just like that, all the bravado seeps from Dean’s stance. He scrubs his hand over his face, and the large, heavy sigh that escapes him sounds of a thousand years of weariness. He says resignedly, “You were supposed to the smart one, Sam.”

“Come again?”

“Never-mind,” Dean quickly recovers. “Look, if you want to know what happened to your mother, I’ll give it to you straight. Just don’t pretend to believe me if you really don’t, because I won’t waste my time.”

Sam anxiously wets his lips, thinking of how this man’s shortcomings in human interactions are more than off-set by his natural talent for whetting anticipation. Nodding tersely, Sam replies, “That’s quite the preface. Now the truth, if you will?”

Dean holds his gaze for a long moment, but when it becomes plain that an acquittal will never come to pass, he sweeps his near-forgotten drink up off the marble bench and loudly slurps at the brimming liquid, taking his time as Sam watches on, shivering from what must be the cold.

Half the Boothby has disappeared behind puckered lips before Dean lowers the glass to speak. “I’ll repeat myself only once. Like I said, there exists a lullaby. It is a cipher, created for the purpose of unlocking the whereabouts of a certain group of, well—a group of top-tier demons.”

Sam bites his tongue, despite the burning question that echoes through his mind— _Literal or figurative demons?_ But in abhorrence to causing his informant to skitter away, Sam schools his face into what he hopes is an encouraging countenance, though he struggles beneath the pointed gaze that pins him so. Fortunately, the façade holds, and Dean continues.

“The thing is, not just _anyone_ can know where they are, because these demons, they’re not your garden-variety devils or spirits. The Three—they’ve got power…power and means to murder you in your sleep if you happen upon this information even accidentally. The coded lullaby protects the innocents. It protects everyone who needn’t know of the dark things that go on around them, while conversely, it supplants those of us who should know, who _must_ know where these ring-leaders are.”

“And I take it you’ve assumed the role of the latter?”

“Inherited, more like,” Dean says wryly, before rushing to clarify: “Don’t misunderstand—there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than hunting them down—Azazel, in particular. He’s a right old bastard—murdered your mother. Murdered your mother’s friends, and countless, countless others. He won’t stop, either; not unless guys like me do it for him.”

Heat flares up in verdant eyes and Dean looks up, directing palpable intensity towards Sam. The proximity of Dean’s thrumming body seems in an instant all too near—swallowing hard, in attempts to dislodge the viscous pressure engulfing his throat, Sam desperately seeks some channel through which to diffuse the emotions crackling through the dry, night air.

At length, he asks tremulously, “This lullaby you speak of…may I hear it?”

The electricity in Dean’s gaze breaks with the loss of contact, his eyes suddenly transfixed on the ground in a manner that could be deemed almost _bashful,_ were it not so incongruous with the man’s character. It is all Sam can do but to grip that jaw in his fingers to force the gaze back, but his cognitive self madly clutches from such folly, and thankfully so, for it is only the stretch of silence that makes audible the barest of whispers that stems low from Dean’s throat when he begins to sing.

_Frutescent Yovine Cappula._

It sounds of but a breeze at first, of wind streaming between tree branches on an early Spring day, but with the following verse Dean’s murmurs gradually strengthen until the only thing Sam can perceive anymore, the only tangible thing before him is the haunting melody of the lullaby and the way Dean’s voice modulates around it, lending a raw, bitten edge that shakes Sam right to his very core.

_Frutescent Yovine Cappula,_  
Fulcrum Crustian Bailecito,  
Fullage Romosity Armariolum, 

The lullaby itself brings to the forefront all it embodies—the blood spilt over its creation can be heard in fearful, reverent consonants, while the rolling exhales of elevated vowels sound of the faint hope it brings to those who can grasp its power.

_Navachy Navagante  
Neoteric_

The last couplet repeats itself, in rhythmic counterpoint to the pumping blood in Sam’s veins, until the echoes of it return to silence.

The silence, however, is anything but its denotation of stillness—instead, the space between them remains charged, magnetic. Sam wavers, falls infinitesimally nearer—near enough that he can hear the breath stir in Dean’s mouth.

There is a matter which persists in Sam’s mind, present ever since its introduction on that fateful day he met the Stranger. Sam parts his lips—allows himself to take in the involuntary flicker of Dean’s eyes—and says, “There’s something that’s been bothering me. The day at the cemetery, when you first saw me. You looked…the way you reacted…“

If there is some tact to be found for this particular question, Sam is blind to it, groping with empty fists, all the while Dean’s eyes slowly, sensually darken. Flustered, Sam blurts, “Do you know me?”

Dean’s eyes widen. “What? What in the world would give you—“

“Because,” Sam rushes to interject. “—because I saw you, I saw the way you looked at me after I introduced myself that day. Like you _recognized_ me. And I just need to know if I imagined it. If I’m imagining all of this—”

With the panicked back-steps Dean takes, Sam feels his heart jump to his throat. He surges forward, desperate to perpetuate the moment, even while it slips away like fine sand through his fingers. “Who _are_ you, anyway, and how do we know each other? Because I feel like we know each oth—“

A piercing cold suddenly spills over Sam’s lap, and he freezes—numbly looks down, tracking the progression of events from the drink staining his trousers, to the shattered glass on the concrete ground. He hadn’t noticed—hadn’t even _realized_ he’d snatched up Dean’s arms until the two men stood apart, chasm growing while Dean rubs his biceps defensively.

The door behind them slams open, Sam jumping at the sound. A mass of silk hurtles past him in a rippling curtain of ivory, before throwing itself at Dean. The lightweight fabric calmly settles into the form of a gown, filled by the slender physique of a young woman.

“Dean,” she says simply, framing his jaw with her small hands. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get away—you know my mother, she would _not_ let me out of her sight.. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

Dean looks down at the girl in his arms, surprise dappled across his features for the briefest of instances before it is blinked it away in his recovery. Dean says, voice low and rough, “Jo. Hey.”

Sam observes the proximity of their bodies with an acrid sensation tricking down his throat—Dean’s hands look indomitable where they rest on the girl’s slim, boyish hips, and her arms have since slid over broad shoulders to curl around, bringing her pink lips against the crook of Dean’s neck, just below his ear, where the skin looks soft and vulnerable beneath the light of the moon.

What Sam doesn’t notice, however, is the green gaze that sweeps past blonde locks to study him, taking in the abject horror Sam effuses so thoroughly; indeed, Sam’s far too preoccupied ( _scandalized_ ) with the familiar demeanor in which the young woman purrs Dean’s name to take note of the determination in Dean’s brow as he tugs her in to breach that last, meager inch of decency. Flesh and warmth displaces air in favor of a full-bodied press as Dean covers her mouth with his own; Sam stares woodenly, fixed in place.

That is, until the first slick noise of a lovers’ kiss reaches his ears—then, he is helpless but to banish the scene as far away as possible, beginning with his timely re-entry into the Fairmont Ball Room.

From there, Sam immediately thunders a straight path out the entrance, stopping for absolutely nothing until he has hailed a horse buggy and directed the driver home. 

Once ensconced in the solitude of his bedroom, Sam hastily strips off his starched shirt and icy, still-damp slacks, and promptly dives under covers. Still, the initiation of slumber eludes him; every facet of his mind trembles with _Dean_ —the smell of him (plain soap and light sweat) clings to Sam’s nose, while his eardrums reverberate with the ache of Dean’s voice as it carries a lullaby that is laden with meaning.

It is a long time before Sam drifts off into blessed unconsciousness. With one forearm slung over eyes and the other beneath his pillow, where knuckles barely graze the crumpled carte-de-visite kept there, Sam dreams of nothing but the night’s vivid sensations that haunt him so, inescapable as they are.

\-----

Sam wakes. It is not the slow, lumbering ascent of a natural stirring; on the contrary, a snap impulse thrusts him into the world of the conscious and Sam finds himself furiously blinking away the edges of sleep, only to be confronted with the ghostly emergence of a man’s face.

He pauses at the sight, making no premature assumptions of its physical existence—it is deathly dark outside, still the thick of night, and only by the barest glow of street-lamp does Sam’s vision slowly adjust. The materialism of the room rises in subtle tones of clarity like a sunken ship that has regained buoyancy, yet the figure hardly draws back in shadow, preferring to gain in corporeality until even the features of the man’s face are discernable.

Sam’s eyes widen, slowly, until they’re large as plates—he fights off what _must_ be an optical trick, or perhaps the lingering of a dream, but the scene before him refuses to change: as much as Sam may will it, it remains a fact that the proprietor of so much of his waking thought— _Dean,_ that is—Dean is in his bed.

Statuesque, Dean has one hand braced against the wall, the other snuck below the very pillow Sam is using. He holds himself rigid, torso suspended mere inches above Sam’s. No part of them touches but the gaping eaves of Dean’s jacket, which silently rest on Sam’s belly, curled in repose.

Sam is the first to move. It is uncomfortably chilly in the room, and his hips roll up of their own accord, seeking out the warmth that emanates from the body so near him. While it seems innocuous enough, the moment their lower bodies collide, Dean jolts forward like a cracked whip, burying his entire arm underneath Sam’s pillow to strain for what could only be the carte-de-visite that’s hidden there. 

For an interminable moment, their bodies are crushed together in struggle. Dean stutter-slips forward, fingers latching onto the CDV as Sam bunches up in alarm, throwing himself flush against Dean—stomach to stomach, chest to chest, their limbs tangle up into a fervent, kicking mess.

Luckily, Sam manages to lay claim to his mother’s photograph, crumpled into his tight, unrelenting fist. Said artifact may no longer be in the ship-shape it once boasted, but nonetheless it survives intact, and _secure._

Dean realizes he no longer stands a chance—not with Sam fully awake (and _vicious_ ). He aborts his attempt to procure the carte-de-visite, launching his momentum backwards to extricate himself from Sam’s clutches. Awkward and gangling though his appearance may be, Sam conceals a strength and tenacity that rivals the most fearsome of beasts.

In other words—Sam is putting up _much_ more of a fight than anyone could bargain for. In fact, he even manages to snatch the upper hand—with a move so deft it impresses even himself, Sam reverses their positions and finds himself toppled onto a shock-still body.

After a moment to settle in, Sam discovers he rather likes being in the position of power. He straddles Dean’s convulsing waist—traps jerking wrists against the mattress with a firm, two-handed grip and the sure lock of his elbows, and looks down, panting with exertion.

Finally, and then only in between laboured breaths, Sam demands, “Who are you, really? What is it you want from me?”

A curse worthy of a rascally old sailor rises up from Dean’s mouth, and though defiance is little more than Sam could have expected, it hardly prevents disappointment from pooling low in his abdomen. 

_Wait,_ he suddenly realizes, with no small amount of delight. _I’m the one who has gained advantage, here._ How wondrous, how venerable, this simple truth! Sam wriggles in his makeshift seat just to emphasize the point to Dean, who abruptly stops his ferocious struggling in favor of freezing up into a tense, unmoving block.

Peering down questioningly at his captive, Sam is reminded of the defence mechanism of various wild creatures to “play dead”, so to speak. The old trick won’t dupe Sam into relinquishing his leverage, though—far from it. Sam isn’t _stupid._

Sam leans down as far as the tender stretch in his hamstrings will allow him and squarely pins Dean’s evasive eyes into place. When he is sure of the attention he so requires, Sam whispers, “Tell me. Dean, right? Tell me why you want that code so badly, that you will break the law to get at it.“

Dean only averts his gaze. Disgruntled, Sam presses the full extent of his weight into his hands, squeezing Dean’s wrists together tightly enough to pinch a grimace from his captive’s face. _So be it,_ Sam thinks, overtaken by a sudden, rapacious need for Dean’s eyes to be trained on him, for Dean’s ears to be attuned to his every word.

When Dean emits a small grunt, the abortive noise feels like a minor slap. Sam immediately loosens his grip, before releasing it altogether. Tension quickly vacates his body, and concern floods in its place; feeling a bit sorry for the man beneath him, Sam scoots backwards from the cushion he has made of Dean’s stomach, removing his one-hundred-and-some-pound burden from the vulnerable belly beneath him in a small gesture of sympathy.

Only, the shift in positions diverts Sam’s attention to a wholly separate, yet equal (if not greater) source of discomfort.

A hard, unmistakable pressure makes itself known, just underneath Sam’s posterior. This time, it is Sam who is shocked into paralysis, as the very feel of it—stiff, and of what seems to be considerable length—invokes a barrage of sensations. In fact, just the existence of Dean’s evidenced arousal, whether through the simple physicality of their tussle (or risen from another, more damning origin) something stirs in Sam, unnamable and _fierce._

In the next instant, Dean _bucks_ with all his might and succeeds in tumbling Sam from his throne. The lone, bedroom window is still open—clearly from Dean’s previous tampering and method of entrance—and within the span it takes for Sam to even _consider_ giving chase, the other man has dropped out the window and beat a hasty retreat.

There is a long, still moment in which Sam gapes after the open window. When he finally finds the mind to dash over and stretch his head out the window like a bird craning for food, not even the spectre of Dean remains in the quiet, lamp-lit streets.

Some time passes in this uncomfortable stance before Sam recollects himself enough re-tract himself from window. He shuts it—latches it—and gathers himself back into bed.

In the still night—disconcertingly still, in the wake of such intense activity—it is impossible for Sam to ignore the evidence of his own arousal. And while Sam is hardly stranger to his own body, having discovered the utility of his own hand in relieving the excesses of lust from an appropriately early age, the context of this particular circumstance seems somehow too disturbing to indulge in such activity.

Through infinite, painstaking willpower, he quells the lingering excitement in his loins. When his body more or less returns to its natural state, Sam turns over onto his belly and lets a sudden wave of fatigue wash over him. He crosses his arms underneath his pillow and lays his head down, instinctively reaching out to feel for his mother’s carte-de-visite.

Despite the hollow feeling that has manifested itself within him, Sam holds the photograph tightly and thinks, _At the very least, I still have this._

The thought does little to pacify him.


	6. Promises, Promises

Despite Sam’s consummate neglect of the date demarcated by his appointment book as belonging to Ava (and Brady, and Jess), the occasion of it chases him down.

Or to be exact, _Ava_ chases him down.

Late Thursday, just over one week after the Incident in the night, there comes a knock upon Sam’s office door. It catches him in the midst of a near-frenzy, as he hastens to complete every last task necessary for a smooth transition to the morrow before the arms of night fall over him.

The knock comes again, however, so Sam has hardly the choice but to storm out from behind his desk and answer it. He jerks the door open, snapping, “No more appointments to-night—“ only to stop short, when he discovers Ava standing opposite him. “What are you doing here?”

She answers succinctly: “I _knew_ you’d forget.”

It takes a moment for Sam to recall precisely what it is that he has forgotten. The none-so-gentle buffet of his best friend’s palm against his chest speeds the process, though—it ushers Sam back to his desk, and in an even stronger press for urgency now, he dives into his pile of last-minute errands, pushing several on to the following day for what is destined to be a breakneck Friday.

With Ava’s assistance—she would make for a serviceable secretary, the speed in which she diminishes the pile of unopened envelopes on his desk—Sam finds himself hustled out of his small office with just enough time for them to reach their destination without too-debilitating of tardiness.

Downstairs, Ava and Sam merge with the crowd that swells through Market Street. They follow the main drag, bypassing an assortment of professionals down the old Cocktail Route in their haste to prevent Brady and Jess from having to entertain awkward conversation for any longer than strictly required. They arrive at their pre-determined location with serendipitous timing—under the weather-worn sign of Heidelberg Inn, Sam and Ava descend into the basement only to come up short behind the familiar form of Brady’s back.

Ava calls his name out, barely audible over the raucous din bouncing off wood-paneled walls and ornamented pillars, but Brady turns around and falls in step with them, his face alight.

“Sam, my boy,” he greets, clapping him on the back before bending down to peck his wife on the cheek. “We’ve secured a table, just over there,” he says, gesturing at a corner of the packed room before leading them towards it.

Jess is already seated, but she rises to embrace Ava. To Sam, a cordial nod, “Hullo there, Mr. Winchester.”

“Ms. Moore,” he returns, uncertainly. A slight embarrassment creeps into him as Sam recalls their last exchange with clarity—he’d promised to wait for Jess after the Viennese Waltz, only to disappear prematurely and without any notice.

Fortunately, Jess does not seem to be a pronounced holder of grudges. She replies, “Have you got my drink, after all?” with a small, but genuine smile, and Sam relaxes fully.

“Not on my person, I’m afraid, but I shall certainly buy you a cold stein if you have a thirst for beer. I suppose I owe you that much,” he replies with a wide grin, and just like that, the thin anxiety hovering over the table dissipates as easily as fog at daybreak.

The evening looks to be very promising—removed from the stuffy atmosphere that the Fairmont Hotel inevitably lends, the four young friends are precisely that: friends, pals, acquaintances. The whole-souled demeanor of the restaurant’s congregation is infectious, while an authentic, German orchestra entertains its guests with a thumping, martial strain that draws the inclusion of seemingly everyone—diners, waiters, and even the eagle-eyed manager chime in for the robust chorus.

Throughout it all, Sam, Jess, and Ava and Brady talk of anything and everything that comes to mind. The newlyweds supply an endless stream of amusing anecdotes, ranging from reports of the silliest wedding gifts they’d received, to wide speculation of where they ought to spend their honeymoon; all the while, Jess and Sam play off each other in friendly duels of wit. 

As Brady regales the table with his appraisal of Burlingame—a real up-and-comer of a town that’s become playground to men and women who fancy weekend jaunts and holidays—Sam eats voraciously (and drinks in pace with his appetite). Before long, he is scraping up the last morsels of his beef _sauer-braten._

Sam lays his napkin down, excusing himself to the mens room; at the back of the restaurant, a queue has formed (though luckily, it remains far shorter than the one that trails from the ladies’ waiting-room, Sam observes with relief). He leans against the wall, idly eavesdropping on nearby conversation as fellows gab to one another.

Quite unexpectedly, someone _whumps_ down beside him.

“Howdy,” the newcomer says.

“Good Lord—“ Sam starts, jolting upright. 

While Sam should hardly be more shocked to see Dean’s increasingly familiar visage than he ought to be expectant, the man nevertheless manages to unsettle Sam at every turn. Dean sprawls against the wall, outwardly more comfortable in his dusty, casual attire than the penguin suit he’d donned at the Fairmont. He smiles up at Sam, and it trickles warmly in his chest, like honey.

In the desire to weaken so disarming an opponent, Sam yearns to quote: “You must not smile so! Listen, no one is allowed to smile that way at anyone!”. Taking into account the inopportunity of the moment, however, Sam can only suffer in silence. Images and sensations quickly filter up, as he remembers Dean (in his bed, not a week ago), remembers their tussle with vividness. And here Dean is, once again, making a right mess of Sam’s pleasant, orderly life—and doing so with flagrant disregard of propriety, as Dean picks at his teeth with a finger. 

Such brazenness should disgust him—really, it ought to, but before Sam can disengage himself from the unsavory spell he has been cast under, Dean edges in to say, “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Samuel Winchester, Esquire.”

A loud bang of a door interrupts them, the single restroom opening up for a gentleman who squeezes by as Sam presses against the wall to give the man room. Dean uses the opportunity to plaster himself distractingly to Sam’s side.

“Is this really the appropriate place for this?” Sam breathes. He receives an odd look from a lady, who is waiting in queue across from them. Sam coughs. Then hisses, low under his breath so only one set of ears can participate, “I already know you’re after the final code—made it perfectly plain, the other night. You’re plumb crazy, you know. Breaking and entering is practically a capital offense.”

“Not as capital an offense as passing up the only chance you’ve got to avenge your mother’s death.”

Sam blinks, attempting to disassemble the veiled promise of information lurking in Dean’s retort. It proves an insurmountable task, however, so Sam adopts a quicker route— “What do you mean? For once, for the love of God, will you simply say what you mean?” When Dean’s eyes slide behind shutters, Sam seizes him by the biceps and hauls him aside, wanting fewer curious listeners for the perilous topic of which they speak. They wind up backed into a small alcove, where the walls dip in to accommodate a single telephone. 

There is scarcely enough room for the desk and machinery, much less two grown men, yet Sam pushes Dean inside and gives him a hard shake. 

“I want answers, Dean. If I am to help you in any which way or form, it is a perfectly reasonable request that you cease your pussyfooting, and put me wise.”

“Good Lord,” Dean replies, his eyes large and alarmed. “Take it easy.” He shrugs out of the grip and draws back as far as he can, avoiding Sam’s penetrating eyes.

Sam won’t let him off easily, though. If he is to conform to Dean’s wants—obscure, and layered though they may be—he won’t give up his last bartering chip, only to be cast aside (or murdered, more like) when he is no longer of value to anyone.

It is this train of thought that leads Sam to act thusly: he crowds Dean into the corner of the alcove, taking full advantage of the height he so often suppresses, because in this instance—in this particular situation, Sam does not want to blend. He doesn’t want to look approachable, or seem friendly—on the contrary, he aims to _intimidate._

Sam slides his hands up from Dean’s arms, only to settle them on the sides of Dean’s tender, vulnerable neck. He runs the pads of his thumbs across the scrape of a nascent beard, and the pulse underneath it thrums hotly and quickly, like that of prey. 

As if drenched with cold water, Sam suddenly realizes—Dean is only human, like any other. Capable of great physical feats and violence, undoubtedly, but human nonetheless. And for the moment, it seems Dean grasps the extent of his own mortality—he swallows convulsively under the wide palms that gently, threateningly encircle his throat, and shivers at the thumbs that trace up and down his windpipe.

Sam knows to strike while the iron is hot. “You say you have a proposition for me,” Sam starts, running a tongue over his canines. “So let’s hear it, then. What are you willing to give up to get your—“ Sam slips his thumbs down Dean’s collar, digging his nails in the soft spot just under his strangely delicate clavicle— “ _clever,_ lock-picking hands on the last code?”

Dean’s breathing is ragged and uneven, but his words are unmistakable: “I’d do—I’ll do almost anything.”

It is close enough, but Sam—Sam, who now lords over his very own once-stalker, his once-aggressor—Sam wants more than just “almost anything.” He wants Dean to reveal _everything_. He leans in to communicate as such, Dean’s eyes widening—

“Sam!” A feminine voice rings out.

Dean snap-reacts, mimicking elastic in the instantaneous manner in which he thrusts Sam away. The edge of the small desk, protruding from the alcove wall, jams into Sam’s hip and he curses, clutching at bruised bone even as he turns to apprehend the identity of who seeks him with such maddening concurrence.

“Sam,” the woman repeats, peeking her head around the corner to reveal a cherubic, curious face. “Oh, there you are—“

It is none other than Jess. When she discovers the boys, her voice ceases to work—mouth slightly agape, her bright, blue eyes track over the way Sam and Dean have crammed themselves into the tiny space, only the slimmest of inches separating them from what couldn’t be interpreted as anything but a clandestine, full-bodied embrace.

Sam means to disengage themselves from their suspect position, but Dean beats him to it. He springs out from the nook, grabbing hold of Jess’ hand with both his own—one to carry her fingers, the other laid on top in a most forward practice—and he says, with charm abound, “My apologies. I’ve nicked your companion for awhile longer than expected. You see, he was helping me to work this infernal contraption.”

Jess darts an uncertain glance over to Sam, who watches the interchange with a frown wrinkling his forehead. In the momentary lull, as both Jess and Dean hold out for an affirmation of the hastily spun story, Sam finally confirms, “Indeed. There are still fellows about, I suppose, who have yet to acclimate themselves to the economies of the Telephone.”

Sam holds his breath, awaiting some scathing, green-eyed glare or other acknowledgment of the none-too-subtle derision in Sam’s comment, but none proves forthcoming. Dean only caresses Jess with one long, unabashed sweep of his eyes, as the pout of his mouth pulls back into a one-sided grin.

“I’m Dean, by the way,” he says, with no apparent intentions of dropping Jess’ hand.

A sickly sensation crawls through Sam’s belly, as he can hardly believe his ears—Dean gives his name freely to Jess, with nary a string of attachment in sight. Never-mind that Sam had to claw and bite his way onto the same level that Jess has been so immediately elevated to; Dean steps closer to her, his every intention made crystal clear through his hungry grin and the way he edges ever nearer, like an apple moth to a lit candle. 

The sheer injustice rankles Sam, and he seeks to make his censure known. He steps out of the alcove and moves Dean aside to drape a possessive arm over Jess’ shoulders. She looks at him in surprise, but says nothing—only gently draws her hand out from between those of Dean’s.

Sam’s subsequent grin is haughty, and directed solely to the man who continues to upend his equilibrium. “I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting, my dear. This…fellow…has been seen to, so there is no further reason for us to tarry.”

“Of course,” Jess says, puzzlement echoing in her voice. She composes herself, however, to repeat, “Of course. Well, it was lovely meeting you, Dean. Good luck with your wire troubles.”

Dean salutes her smartly. Sam just narrows his eyes at him, before smoothly pulling Jess out of the hallway.

After re-settling at their table and passing the rest of their rendez-vous without event, Sam thinks he has escaped the damning presence of Dean. Only, Dean has other ideas.

Later, as Sam and Brady hunch over the slip of paper that tabulates their expenses for the meal, a hard clap comes down on Sam’s shoulder. Reluctantly, Sam drags his eyes skyward.

It comes to no surprise when he beholds Dean above him. Dean pauses dramatically, then leans down to whisper in Sam’s ear, as the rest of the table watches on with due interest:

“I can change your mind, Sam. I promise you this: I can be very…persuasive, when there’s something I want,” he drawls, lips brushing the outer shell of one of Sam’s ears, which are flushed a deep red. “Meet me at the Roadhouse Tavern, after you’ve broken up this little Alcott reunion. Clara and Ritch, off the Folsom line. Just ask for me, the girls‘ll point you in the right direction.”

Sam would love none other than to go directly home, just to prove to Dean the existence of an independent will; unfortunately, neither of them are under the pretence that Sam could let escape the chance for what may possibly be the final yarn that will un-spool the mystery of the murders that surround (and include) the late Mary Winchester.

Thus, Sam tightens his lips in silent agreement. Dean pats him on the shoulder, tossing a glib smile to the baffled company present before he makes his way upstairs and outside.

\-----

Later that evening, Sam finds himself in the dark alley of Ritch Street. As he regards the dilapidated building before him, his stomach lurches with something akin to trepidation—after all, South of Market (where he has strayed), between the run-down hostels and rowdy Irish establishments, anything goes. To worsen matters, the façade of the Roadhouse Tavern does little to assuage Sam’s concerns—sitting back from the abandoned street, the flimsy wooden structure can barely pull itself together enough to remain upright.

It would figure Dean would house himself in surroundings such as these, Sam thinks, as he enters the saloon on begrudging tread.

Inside, a clientele of burly, unshaven men crowd around grimy table-tops littered with pint glasses in various levels of quaff. Sam would expect no less. However, when he seeks out “the girls” Dean had instructed him to query for his whereabouts, the last person Sam anticipates to meet is Ms. Joanna Beth Harvelle proper—the established gentlewoman of San Francisco Society is seated at the bar, sans escort, and with _whisky_ in her hand, no less.

Flames of annoyance lick up, and—not for the first time—Sam wonders at her precise relation to Dean. Are they lovers, as that kiss at the Fairmont would indicate? Does the infatuating man simply require a warm body, or is Ms. Harvelle truly so privileged as to claim ownership to Dean’s fondness?

With a small noise of self-disgust, Sam quickly stamps out the embers of such deviled thoughts. It is not an un-frequented place they will take him, but neither is it a particularly pleasant mind-frame.

Perhaps sensing her existence in Sam’s thoughts, Ms. Harvelle’s eyes soon fall upon him—as does a veritable tide of flinty, hardened stares that pierce from all across the dingy room like glittering jewels. Sam is suddenly made aware of how conspicuous he must appear, smooth-faced and coiffed as he is, and garbed in dapper, office attire; Ms. Harvelle herself dons a modest robe, easily afforded by the tightest of purse-strings.

To Sam’s great relief, the lady in question quickly drains the amber liquor from her glass and beckons him over.

“Sam, right?” she asks, by way of salutation.

“Correct...and if I’m not mistaken, you’re Ms. Harvelle, are you not? Of relation to Mr. William Anthony Harvelle?” Their family is well-established, having founded a successful ammunitions brand.

Ms. Harvelle’s face turns blank, replying, “That would be my father. But my father’s been dead for two years, now.”

Sam pauses in horror, unsure of the proper proceeding after a _faux-pas_ of such magnitude. Eventually, he stutters, “I’m sorry. I—I was living in Palo Alto for several years. I…I never heard.”

She simply shoots him a disparaging look that makes Sam feel very small. Luckily, the young lady is not so sadistic as to leave him to wallow in his acute mortification, and changes the subject: “Please, call me Jo—at least while we’re here. You’re sticking out like a sore thumb, as it is. Where do you think we are, the Fairmont?” she jibes, hopping off her stool to loosen the knot of Sam’s neck-tie and fluff her fingers through the pomade in his hair. Sam stiffens, grasping at a semblance of composure that is being made difficult under the restless hands of Ms. Harvelle, as she works over his entire appearance, stopping her only when her hands make to undo the buttons of his waistcoat—there are _boundaries_ , after all, between a man and woman of their status.

Ms. Harvelle—Jo, rather—just cocks her head aside and nods in a sort of withering approval.

Still, Sam doesn’t fancy over-staying his welcome at the Roadhouse, and so gets right to the point: “Are you…I presume you are the one I am to beg for the whereabouts of your slippery friend.”

The smile on her lips betrays no small amount of smugness, and Sam finds Jo to be enjoying all too heartily his pronounced bewilderment of the situation at hand. Her membership to this small club of insiders irks him so, but by this point, Sam is resigned to the fact that he has waded into something bigger than him—some impenetrable world that plays by a set of rules entirely aberrant from the ones Society would have them follow.

Sam’s displeasure must be billowing off his self like dust from an ancient tome, because Jo soon takes pity. She gives Sam the first straight answer he’s heard in a long time—says, “He’s in back.” A quick jab of her thumb points the way, Sam spying the shrouded door of which she speaks.

Following her instruction, Sam traverses the saloon and takes the door into a side room. 

The space inside is so dark and small, it looks as if it may have once been a supply closet but has since been converted into makeshift quarters. Dean sits on the low bed there, but (for once), it is not he who commands Sam’s attention…

“ _Ash?_ ”

For fear his eyes deceive him, Sam steps closer to the uniformed man who so resembles his friend—and it is no trick: standing before him is none other than Sgt. Ashcroft McGinness.

“Sam,” Ash says, taking a half-step forward before his eyes drop down to Dean’s, as if asking some implicit question. Dean gives a small shake of his head.

“I am afraid I don’t understand,” Sam says, watching the non-verbal exchange with consternation, when Dean stands up, brushes himself off, and extends his hand to Ash. They shake, Dean saying quietly, “We’ll continue this later, all right?” and the look Ash sends Sam is apologetic. If only Sam knew what it was he was apologizing for.

The door shuts softly behind them, and soon only Sam and Dean remain, facing each other warily. 

A glow of orange light flickers against the exposed, wooden walls, cast by the candle on the simple desk. The lone flame fails to penetrate the darkness of the room’s corners and crevices, however, lending a coffin-like air. Sam shivers.

“Take a seat,” Dean says, interrupting Sam’s mounting claustrophobia with a gesture towards the bed. There is no chair in the room, so Sam settles on the mussed quilt, the bed frame groaning with his weight. He idly wonders if this is where Dean sleeps—in which case, Sam would understand the man’s need to troll the streets of San Francisco at night, dismal as these quarters are.

Dean takes his place against the opposite wall, leaning back against the closed door there (and blocking the exit) with a calculating look upon his face.

As it appears Dean will not be the one to begin, Sam ventures, “That was Ashcroft McGinness, was it not? The man with whom you were speaking.”

He only receives a nod in assent. “How is it that you know him?” Sam asks, doggedly. “I mean, I suppose I involved the man in this…this supernatural affair, when I asked of him to retrieve some dossiers for me. Yet I was under the impression that he was still very much in the dark.” The notion that, all this time, Ash may have been playing Sam for the fool, unsettles him a great deal. For how long had Ash known of this sinister plot? Since their school days at Stanford, even?

“Ash has been a friend to me for many years, now,” Dean says, and it seems as though Sam’s fears are to be realized. He feels further slighted, when Dean adds, “He is helping me out—as he’s done for you. But what role he plays in regards to Azazel is of no concern to you, so put it out of your mind.”

Sam leaps to his feet and crosses the room in two, three short strides, as he growls, “I came here for answers, Dean, not more of your—your secrets, and riddles. You said. You _promised._ ”

Ever the cool countenance upon his veneer, Dean smirks at him and replies, “Your forget what it is, specifically, that I _promised_.” An outright leer chases the statement, and the implications of it draw up Sam’s exact recollection of their conversation, only hours earlier—

_“I promise you this: I can be very…persuasive, when there’s something I want.”_

The air between them turns hot and stifling. Sam retreats from it, seating himself at the foot of the bed once again. He says resignedly, “We’ve reached an impasse, you and I. You seek the final code so that you may locate whither the demon, Azazel, has concealed himself, while I—I only ask to understand the situation. Now, you mentioned a proposition, back at the Heidelberg Inn. Out with it, then. Show me this infallible persuasion you boast so heartily of. Or better yet—just tell me what in _damnation_ is going on, around here.”

Frustration wracks his shoulders and Sam, tiredly, leans forward to rub his face with his hands. When he emerges, Sam very nearly butts his forehead against Dean’s, the suddenness with which the man appears before him. Dean sits on his haunches, his face so near that Sam can discern each freckle and mark upon his complexion. The sight is altogether dizzying.

“You already know what’s going on, Sam,” Dean says, softly. “I’ve told you all you needed to know. Azazel killed your mother and her friends, so in following of justice, I aim to kill him—well, as much as you can kill a demon. Now, if you would just…” Dean licks his lips. “ _Cooperate_. We could put this whole nasty business behind us, and you’ll never have to see the likes of me again.”

Does Dean really believe Sam would find such a proposition to be favourable? Clearly, the man is challenged. 

Annoyance piqued, Sam argues, “You tell me nothing, Dean, but the bare, ivory-bone facts. It is not enough to know that my mother was murdered. No, what I want to know—what I _must_ know, is _why?_ Why was she killed? And the others, how were they so involved as to require their deaths?” Sam reaches out to tangle Dean’s shirtfront in one fist, jerking him down to force the meeting of their eyes.

Perhaps Dean, too, is weary of the burden that Secret-Keeping imposes upon him, for he visibly relents. “There was no rhyme, nor reason for the way she passed. She merely happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. But the lore…do you really want to know the lore, Sam?” 

An emphatic nod is the best answer Sam has. 

“All right,” Dean says. He stops to disentangle Sam’s grip from his shirt, before continuing: “Now, I told you before—Azazel was only one of three powerful demons. They’ve existed since…since before our minds can even conjure, but it is only in recent times that these three have posed a threat. Somehow—we don’t know how—they crawled out from the gates of hell and have since been biding their time on Earth. Even now they remain in hiding, just waiting for their chance to re-unite and bring about a horror so cataclysmic, it would mean the end to everything we know.”

Sam listens with bent head and furrowed brow, “And what of Mary? What threat could she possibly pose to…to a band of demonic _ring-leaders?_ ”

“She overheard something she wasn’t meant to hear; it’s as simple as that. When our three demons were fresh out of hell, sloppy from their giddiness at escape, they spoke of their plans in a vulnerable premises. They spoke of their designated hideaways—where they were, how to gain access—details of that sort. The plans were very specific, and as inalterable as a booking at the Waldorf-Astoria, and Mary—well, Mary…she heard it all. At length, the demons recognized their folly and from thereon, it was simply a matter of destroying their little spy as soon occasion presented itself.”

Emboldened by the haste in which the mystery of his mother’s death unravels, Sam takes up the yarn and continues, with dawning enlightenment— “But before they had a chance to extinguish her, Mary passed on the information—coded, and broken up into disparate pieces, in order to preserve some modicum of security that would prevail after the death she knew— _must_ have known—to be imminent. She was clever. Far cleverer than the demons had alleged.”

Dean hesitates for so long that Sam wonders if he’d erred in his deductions, but a stiff nod comes eventually. “Right. She made informants of friends, praying they would act quickly and in tandem, disposing of Azazel and the others before they fell victim themselves. Unfortunately, we know this to be precisely what happened—and now, Mary’s legacy lives on in only bits and pieces, separate and estranged and utterly useless while they remain so.” Dean’s eyes are downcast as he speaks, and in them dwells a shadow of such distress that Sam wracks his mind for some method to dispel it with. But as effortlessly as the gloom had formed, a wry smile takes its place as Dean adds, “That was some detective work, Sammy. I suppose that university degree didn’t go entirely to waste.” In Dean’s low voice dwells an undercurrent of admiration, oblique and subtle.

Sam hears it, though, clear as day, and an insurmountable pride washes over him like a tidal wave. After all, he’s solved it! He knows, _finally_ , the entirety of the subterfuge that surrounds the string of murders he’d been chasing as a dog chases its own tail. And as if that weren’t triumph enough, there still remains some justice to be had; the means to finding Azazel and the others (and exacting upon them an appropriately grisly punishment) is as near and tangible as the distance between Sam’s lips to Dean’s ears, shaped in the form of Abigail Gunther’s code.

Only, a thought suddenly occurs to him. “Dean,” Sam says, drawing the attention of the man once again. “Tell me. How is it done? How do mere mortals, the likes of you and I, defeat an ageless wraith made of supreme evil?”

At this, a slow grin spreads across Dean’s face, utterly magnetic. “Haven’t you ever heard of an exorcism, kid? And here I imagined you the Good Christian.”

“Yes, and I suppose you’ll have me believe there exists an ark capable of boarding every species on the planet, or that every Sunday communion, I drink the blood of Christ—” Dean quirks an eyebrow at this, and Sam trails off in slow shock.

Dean laughs at the comical expression presented to him, before saying, “Lord, you should see yourself!”

Sam makes a face, saying pointedly, “ _In any case._ After I tell you the code—“ Dean’s face lights up— “what else can I do to help?”

A scowl replaces the delight with undue speed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a civilian Sam, and civilians have no part in our world. I’m sorry enough you had to be involved to this extent, but I’d sooner skin myself with a dull blade than put you in further peril. Hell, Dad would beat me to it—“

But Sam hears no more, for Dean stiffens up like a wooden plank, his teeth clicking shut. No matter—Sam breaches the silence to haughtily purport, “I don’t care that you feel some gratuitous obligation to protect me; I am not some woman or babe to coddle. I have wits beyond the likes of any of the prime individuals outside this door, and I have the stature and agility for any dust-up that may incur, as you well know—“

“Trust me,” Dean cuts in vehemently. “You are the _last_ person we want on a rampage to find Azazel—”

“But _why?_ Why is Ash allowed in—“ Sam leaps to his feet, hands splayed out at his sides as invitation to reason. “Ms. Harvelle, even—why her, and not me? Do you love her—do you _lie_ with her?”

If Sam imagined he could intimidate Dean with his assertiveness or girth, he is sorely misguided, for Dean is of the character to be electrified by belligerence, much as women are by pretty frocks. Dean simply rounds forward and shoves Sam back on the bed with the added ease that the element of surprise lends, and before long Sam is pressed deep into the mattress, Dean straddling him at the hips in a parody of their encounter, that memorable night in Sam’s apartment. This time, however, Dean is the one who reigns, as he jolts forward to deliver a smart punch across Sam’s cheek.

Stunned, Sam works his wounded jaw as he manages, “What was that for?”

“For being so incorrigible. How could I love _Jo_ , when bedding her would be like bedding—I don’t know, a small child, or something equally disgusting. You think I tell them these things because it makes us all the happier for it? Hardly,” Dean sniffs. “I try and keep you out—keep you safe, and the thanks I get for it— 

“No one ever ask for you to do so! I am my own man, and I’m telling you now: I can _help._ Just…tell me. What is so repellant about me, that you cannot stand to allow me the revenge I seek to exact on my mother’s behalf?”

Dean leans down, stretching out full, and cat-like, across Sam’s body. “Because. Because that’s the very point,” he hisses. “Mary _died_ for you. She died for us all. The least you could do is validate her sacrifice by living yourself a long, and full life.” The fire in Dean’s gaze burns so rapaciously, Sam would shield his eyes were he not brimming with it himself. _Fight fire with fire,_ so they say, and thus Sam does exactly that—

He grabs Dean round the back of his neck and jerks down, forcing that infuriating mouth to collide angrily against his own.

There is the inanity of the act to consider, Sam tells himself, as Dean petrifies above him; he only hopes it a precursor to requited passion, rather than a blow to the head, or some such violence. 

Dean does not keep Sam guessing for long: in a thrilling, astonishing turn of event, Dean kisses back. The hesitation quickly gives way to strength and confidence—Dean is no amateur at this. He kisses with a fervor and strength unmatched by any previous partner Sam has engaged, rocking their bodies together in distracting swells that mimic the way his mouth roves. So exploratory is Dean’s tongue, Sam feels himself a cartographer’s territory as Dean attends to each crevice and dip of Sam’s mouth— _three centimeters across the bow of this lip,_ Dean traces. _Remember this landmark,_ at the mole on Sam’s skin.

Sam is just beginning to relax into it, allowing Dean to ply his mouth open with intoxicating ease, when in one cruel instant—he is bereft of it. 

He opens his eyes. Above him, face aglow from the gleaming candle-light, with thick lashes like brushstrokes, Dean pants heavily; his chest shifts up and down against Sam’s, teasing and making Sam ache.

“What is it?” he breathes. Dean says nothing, only avoids his gaze, and so Sam brushes his knuckles over Dean’s cheekbone. “Is it…I’ll tell it to you, Dean, if that’s what you want. _Cappula Acodadura._ That’s all it is. _Cappula Acodadura._ ”

Their eyes meet and hold as Dean mouths the code word to himself, silently. It is utterly entrancing, the alluring movement there, and so Sam reaches for Dean and pulls him down once again, eager to return to the more… _pressing_ matters at hand. 

For the briefest of moments, it seems as though Dean will surrender. His strong hands find their way to Sam’s face, cradling it as he delivers the sweetest kiss—but alas, at the very last moment, Dean wrenches himself away.

He sits up, still straddling Sam but ostensibly uncomfortable, now—and he’s shaking. Whether from need or fury Sam can only speculate, but the tremors grow so pronounced that he can feel it rattling through his own bones.

Sam wants to put Dean at ease. The wide, traumatized expression staring down at him plucks at Sam’s chest, and so he props himself up on his elbows and softly pleads, “Dean.” 

“Listen…this is a bad idea.”

Yet despite his pronouncement, Dean makes no effort to end it; in fact, only the bite of his lip and the barest recline reveals any misgivings. It simply isn’t enough—if Dean wants Sam to balk, he is going to have to work much harder than the utterance of one short, uncertain phrase.

Sam stretches up to touch Dean’s forearm with the pads of his fingertips.

It is not the instigator he meant for it to be—the simple brush of contact causes Dean to jerk back. He clambers to his feet and plants them in a wide, robust stance, fists clenched hard. “Get out,” he says resolutely.

But you want this, Sam wishes to argue. With Dean’s flushed face and state of arousal as evidence, it would be the simplest of cases to win; he could lure Dean back to bed and press him down in it, forcing the man to see how much they _both_ want this, indecent and irrational as it may be.

Dean disrupts Sam’s reverie to repeat: “Get _out,_ before I break your face.”

Unfortunately, this is not some trial from work Sam is contending with; no police officer to hold the defendant down, no jury’s verdict to tell Dean to come back. There is only the battle of wills between two men, and the stubborn set of Dean’s jaw and the rear of his shoulder as if to launch forth a blow transmits a message so unequivocal, Sam has no choice but to be the one who surrenders.

And so, he leaves the room. He leaves the Roadhouse Tavern, and all its occupants behind with it.


	7. The Winchesters

_In the night, Dean comes for him again._

No longer does Dean hold himself tense and suspicious; his smile is brilliant, this time, wide and unburdened, transforming him into so guileless of a being that he gains ten years of youth on his countenance. Sam is enthralled by the change.

Especially enthralling is the way Dean makes his way over to him. Sam looks up from his writing-table and feels his breath catch—Dean, his nighttime intruder (though Sam left the latch free, this time), drops down from the bedroom’s open sill with the grace of a cat, and prowls into Sam’s study with the intent of a tiger.

Dean smiles greedily, and Sam licks his lips, feeling hungry himself.

When they clash, it’s with fervor so heated, they could torch the room down. Dean is unabashed when he brings their bodies together—they scrabble at clothing, damning the nuisance the folds pose at this juncture. There are too many buttons, too many layers of which to eliminate. Sam fumbles with Dean’s waistcoat; Dean rips Sam’s pocket-watch off of its chain in his haste to get underneath.

They litter the ground with the starched shells of their clothing. Finally: Dean’s skin— _Lord_ —his smooth, feverish skin is almost too hot to touch. Sam touches, anyway.

If Dean is the cat, then Sam is the carnivore; he tears at Dean’s body with the scrape of his teeth, and beneath him, Dean mewls. The sound is intoxicating. Sam wants more of it—wants to tease other noises from the depths of that working throat, Adam’s Apple helplessly bobbing up and down as Sam devours Dean’s mouth, Dean’s neck, Dean’s chest (his right nipple first, then the left, Dean arching in gasps).

The bed is too distant for this grapple of theirs. Twenty feet across rooms prove insurmountable to the boys, their lust too pressing a matter to dare interrupt with the interminable time a crossing would require. And so they stand together, entwined in each other for support and leverage as they fight for dominance. Two men, and this could unfold no other way.

Sam though, Sam is determined to win. He _wants_ Dean, wants to push the infuriating man down and consume him wholly. Past grievances and bygone annoyances bubble to the surface, and with the passion it lends, Sam grabs Dean’s hips and shoves the man back against the jut of the writing-table, the miscellany there jumping with an indignant clatter.

“ _Sam,_ ” Dean pants. “ _Sam,_ ” like he can speak none other. _Good,_ Sam thinks, exalting in the sound of his name as it escapes from Dean’s riveting, whorish mouth. He wants Dean to want him. Because—the Good Lord willing—does he _ever_ want Dean.

Fortunately, in this Place and Time, Sam can _have_ him. Perched on Sam’s writing-table, nude as a French painting and glowing like a Vermeer, Dean opens himself up to Sam with the slow, obscene spread of his legs, like a woman will do (but utterly, _utterly_ male in the way Dean’s prick stands erect, catching light at the tip where clear fluid wells).

“ _Sam,_ ” Dean invites, and Sam answers back with a kiss—

Dropped upon the curve of Dean’s mouth, the kiss is tender and soft. While the fire that eats at Sam’s soul would have Dean flat on his back with Sam buried inside in the blink of an eye, there is more to it than that—this wondrous creature beneath him encompasses more than just a beautiful face and a willing body. This man of whom he knows practically nothing—Dean invokes in Sam such an array of emotions, it would be wasteful to simply destroy them with flames of lust. 

From the moment those crystalline, green eyes caught his own, long ago and underground in that stifling chamber of the dead, Sam had become captive to their untold stories. Dean may speak of a mystery but he embodies so many more: Sam cannot place the origins of their bone-deep connection. He does not know why the name _Dean_ makes him shiver so…but he means to find out.

He begins by kissing Dean gently, reverently. When Dean whimpers back, Sam puts his hands on the man. Dean trembles, and so Sam wraps a palm around Dean’s cock, distracting him with slow, languid pulls that smear leaking fluid over the swollen head, and when Dean bites off a curse and bucks into Sam’s grip—all bets are off.

“Just do it, Sam,” Dean demands. “I am no woman—I don’t need an hour of petting to get wet. I’ll be wet when you slick yourself, so just _do it_ already.”

The things that will come out of that filthy mouth would make a criminal blush. It succeeds in its intent, however, as Sam responds with renewed vigor, spitting into one palm with which he grasps himself, working hard to prepare his flushed cock. But then quite suddenly, a seed of doubt edges to the forefront of Sam’s mind:

“Dean,” Sam whispers. “I don’t—I’ve never, with a…“

Although the stuttered words make no meaning of their own, Dean smiles with amused understanding. “There’s no wrong way to bed someone, Sam. Man or woman.”

Sam watches on with unbridled heat as Dean makes his point; he moves back, fully seating himself on Sam’s writing-table with a small hop aboard. Makes a show of moving papers and pens aside, before reaching for his own thighs and…

An embarrassing, high-pitched noise ekes out from Sam’s throat. He feels justified in it, however, for in front of him Dean’s raised his knees up, thighs pulled apart to reveal the tight pucker of his hole. All the air in the room rushes out—nothing to fill Sam’s lungs, as Dean sucks on a finger, then reaches down to finger himself open.

“Good Lord, are you trying to kill me?” Sam murmurs, watching the entrance of one digit as it wiggles in, sinking deeper with urgent, little ministrations. When Sam finds the mind to glance back up, the lopsided grin that has formed on Dean’s face is cheeky and utterly arrogant, hinting at all the times Dean may have been recipient to such professions of ardor.

The thought of it grates—that Dean shares this with others, while Sam treasures him wholly. Jealousy invades him, unwelcome and _unwarranted,_ seeing as how Sam…well, Sam is no blushing virgin, himself. He knows how to brandish his body as a weapon, as a conqueror, and Dean—promiscuous, erotic creature that he is—even Dean will be pushed to unimaginable heights of pleasure, and all at the hands of Samuel Winchester.

Dean isn’t prepared for it— _couldn’t_ be, with the girth Sam presents—but it is of no consequence for these eager, wanting boys. A little discomfort is easily dwarfed by the wave of their passions as Sam nudges the blunt tip of his prick against that fluttering hole and, in one rough slide, seats himself within Dean. Sam pauses to exult in the scorching, vice-like grip as Dean bucks in compulsory thrusts, his body struggling to make room.

From here on, there is no thinking required. Instinct takes over as Sam repeats the movement, again, and again, driving mindless cries out from Dean’s throat that sound to the beat of the desk as it batters the wall with the force of Sam’s hips. There is no possible way their coupling could last long—not with the drawn-out courtship they’d entertained, teased out over the course of weeks, and weeks. No, this union has been a long time coming.

“ _Dean,_ “ Sam warns, teetering on the precipice of climax, but Dean only bears down on the cock lodged inside him and rides it without remorse. Sam is helpless but to fall—and so he does, with a little cry, tempering the wave with reflexive spasms as he empties himself inside of Dean. Dean tumbles after, milky fluid spilling over the tautly bunched muscles of his chest and abdomen.

They come down together, bodies heaving in tandem with deep, gasping breaths. In the aftermath, Sam leans over Dean’s contorted body and slowly releases Dean’s legs, letting them drift to the ground, touching floor as Dean strains up, searching Sam out to bring their mouths together…

Through the haze of their sloppy kiss, Sam idly thinks, _Strange_. Though his ears ring with the toll of exertion, he still hears the ceaseless banging of the desk hitting the wall. Pulling back for a moment, Sam regards Dean, sleepy and warm, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. Sam tears his eyes away to look underneath their bodies—sheaves of paper litter the ground around them in stacks of rubbish, but the writing-table they lean on is completely still.

The knocking is relentless, however, and Sam grimaces, covering his ears as the clamor grows louder—

\-----

Sam opens his eyes.

There’s someone knocking at the front door. Someone impatient. Sam groans and buries his head underneath the pillows.

“Mr. Winchester, are you in there?” Charlie’s voice comes through the front room, muffled, but distinct. He sounds a fright, too, his voice urgent—it’s entirely incongruous with what Sam knows of the apathetic door-man, so to hear old Charlie express an energy beyond that of a sedated basset hound could only mean an earthquake, or some tantamount disaster.

Sam blearily throws his sheets off and carries his feet to the front room—once there, Sam remarks with sudden dismay a cooling, tacky fluid making an uncomfortable nuisance of itself, between Sam’s thighs—no doubt a result of the… _vivid_ dream he’d been regrettably pulled from. With an embarrassed groan, Sam trundles right back into his bedroom in order to swap his pajama pants for clean trousers.

“ _Mr. Winchester, there’s someone for you!_ ”

“All right, Charlie, I’ll be right there!” Sam calls back. He shoves his embarrassment aside, much as he has with the soiled pajamas he leaves in a heap, off in the corner of the room. Sam makes a mental note to sort them out anon (and with them, all their sordid implications).

When he unbolts the door and jerks it open, he finds himself faced with not only the door-man, but a visitor as well. Sam recognizes the second man to be young Adam Wilkes, long-time servant of the Wilson household.

“Adam, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to fetch you, Mr. Winchester, at Mrs. Gough’s request.”

“What’s happened? Couldn’t she leave a message? I’m not sorted out enough to be making house calls, right now—“

“She said it’s _very dire,_ sir,” Adam presses, his blue eyes wide and panicked enough to strong-arm even the most grudging of hearts.

“All right, just—give me a minute, I’m hardly awake,” Sam says, inviting the boy in as Charlie turns to go, presumably to re-occupy his post downstairs.

At Adam’s goading, Sam sprints through his morning regimen, splashing his face and choosing his clothes with water-blind eyes. He forgoes even the procedure of brushing his teeth, the urgency with which Adam spurs him on.

“Was there any mention of what happened?” Sam asks worriedly, his grogginess long receded in the face of what unfavorable circumstance may have befallen his best friend.

“No, she just said to fetch you AT ONCE and sent me out with the buggy! Come on, you don’t need that—“

Sam obediently leaves his pocket-watch to follow Adam out the door, buttoning up his coat even as he goes. He does one last about-face to snatch his derby off its knob, clapping it over his flyaway hair as he thunders down the stairs.

\-----

By the time their buggy pulls into the carriage house of the Wilson estate, Sam has dreamt up a thousand detailed scenarios that would find Ava is such distress so as to rouse Sam from his sleep and have him delivered post-haste. The bulk of them involve gruesome incapacitations of loved ones, so when Sam clips across the threshold of the home and lopes up the grand staircase to enter the Parlour Room with his walking stick and hat still on his person, he does not feel so terrible about brushing off the startled maid in favor of rushing to Ava’s side, where she reclines on a divan with her back to him.

“Ava, old girl!” Sam tosses his stick onto the tea-table with a loud rattle and drops to his knees.

Ava whips around, her eyes immediately fastening upon Sam’s in mirrored frenzy. “Oh, Sam! I’m so glad you’re here!”

“What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“It’s—oh, I cannot even catch my breath. Just—“ Ava sits up, grasping about for some object. Finally, her hands seize on a peacock-blue book, which she grabs off the cushions. “Here!” she cries, thrusting it at him.

Sam regards the cloth-bound book with raised eyebrow. “A book?” he asks. Ava nods passionately. “You delivered Adam to wake me on a Saturday morning, just so you could show me a _book?_ ”

“You know very well how I hate that haughty expression of yours,” Ava accuses. “Just trust me—it concerns a VERY important matter.”

“It’s a book, Ava! You had me scared halfway to my grave—I thought you ill, or your family in some terrible way. And by Heaven, you know how reckless Brady is with his motor! What if he’d gotten himself into an accident?” Sam stops to run a hand across the itchy stubble that graces his jaw, wishing he’d had the opportunity to shave. “At the very least, could you pen a message for poor Adam to carry, the next time you seek to pry me from my bed?”

“It isn’t my fault that big noggin of yours always leaps to the most dreadful of conclusions.” Ava says with a little _hmph!_ , before glancing down to tap the cover of the book with a purposeful finger. “Now, the _book,_ if you will.”

With a withering sigh, Sam assumes the vacant seat on the divan and splays out, letting the heart-stopping adrenaline ebb from his system. He removes his hat and sets it down; all the while, Ava’s expectant gaze drills little holes into the side of his head.

He’d kick up a fuss about it, but years of friendship have taught Sam that it would be quicker to simply do as the woman says. He draws his attention to the heavy tome in his hands.

A transcription of the cover is provided here:

THE

UNIVERSAL COMMERCIAL  
ELECTRIC TELEGRAPHIC  
CODE

_Multum in Parvo  
Simplicity and Economy Palpable, Secrecy Absolute._

BY

J. E. WINCHESTER

Upon notation of the book’s author, Sam’s breath sticks in his throat. “You don’t think…”  
“That’s not all,“ Ava rushes to say, reaching over his lap to flip the cover open. The pages land at the Preface, and Ava jabs a finger at the bottom. “Go on,” she says. “Read it.”

Warily, Sam recites: “’…The Author hopes that his work will show the possibility of attaining SIMPLICITY, ECONOMY, and SECRECY, the three great objects of a telegraphic code, and that the time may be not far distant when the use of this Code will assist in matters far greater than those of this humble servant.’

‘To Love, and Family. J. W.”

Sam halts here, lifting his eyes to meet Ava’s. “Well—“ he starts. “Well, it couldn’t be him. It says _to Family,_ and we both know how much my father values such a thing. Not at all, I mean to say.”

“I’m not so sure, Sam. But putting aside the possibility of this Author being of some relation to you, the contents of the book itself warrants great scrutiny. Why, I don’t see how I hadn’t noticed it before!” Ava ducks down to sift through the pages, flipping arbitrarily until they fall open to long lists of telegraphic code. She goes on to explain, “I daresay, just look at the words! Remember those phrases you impressed upon me, weeks and weeks ago?”

How could Sam possibly forget? He’d been living in the thick of it, ever since Abigail Gunther bestowed the first set upon him.

At Sam’s nod, Ava continues, “While they aren’t strictly present in this dictionary, they sound so similar. Clearly of the same breed.”

“You mean to suggest that the codes I’ve come across—that this J. E. Winchester, he may have something to do with them?”

“That is precisely what I am suggesting, Samuel.”

He looks down once again, running fingertips across the columns of codes. Ava is sharp to have noticed how the combinations of the letters, their roots and prefixes…they’re far too alike to the codes to be bred from coincidence. Sam’s hopes rise mercurially.

“I should…I ought to find the man.”

“Indeed,” she agrees, with a knowing smile. “Now, wouldn’t you say this was worth getting out of bed for?”

\-----

With so lucrative a lead in his possession, Sam wastes little time hunting down J. E. Winchester. It is easy as nothing to affect a cryptography enthusiast, utterly besotted with the “creative genius of Mr. Winchester” (Ava would call it narcissism, but Sam merely thinks it good acting). The publishers at Eden Fisher & Co. disclose the Author’s address with merely a smile and a bid of Good Luck to Sam on his mission to obtain the man’s autograph.

Thusly, on this dreary December day, Sam’s journey finds him in the outskirts of Oakland, California—a scant hour’s ferry ride away, but a world apart in terms of culture and development. While the towns South of gay San Francisco turn gladder and lovelier by the year, across the bay, quite the opposite is in effect.

As evidence, Sam would like to present: the house before which he stands.

He could wax rhetoric of how profoundly dubious the groundwork of the building is (the porch skewed to one side), or how the salary of a writer must not be sufficient enough to hire hands to tidy (the fiction of) the front garden. Instead, in the interest of saving Time, Sam will simply liken J. E. Winchester’s abode to the similitude of the suspect Roadhouse Tavern—and he shall leave it at that.

Holding onto the neck of his walking stick, Sam raps the brass butt of it against the rotted door in three quick successions. He quickly scoots back, mentally rehearsing the cover story he’d conjured for the purpose of this visit, when in his peripheral vision, Sam suddenly perceives a thick line of white that graces the front doorstep.

He squats down, examining it more closely. The line is comprised of what seems to be cane sugar, or salt, sealing the underside of the doorway in uninterrupted clumps. _Strange,_ Sam thinks, dragging a finger through the small crystals as he wonders at their purpose.

Before he is caught snooping, Sam straightens his back. Still, no reply comes from within the house, so he knocks a second time, only to have silence greet him once more.

Sam steps forth and gingerly presses his ear against the peeling paint of the door, straining to catch some indication that the house is not so vacant as it purports to be—after all, if this J. E. Winchester is indeed who Sam imagines him to be, then would it not be far-fetched to think the man would seek to avoid him, as he has done for over two decades long?

With this theory in mind, Sam abandons his primary plan of campaign in favor of—well, if he is to be entirely honest, here—in favor of skulking. And housebreaking, if the opportunity so arises (Dean’s questionable code of ethics must be exerting its influence). In any case, if J. E. Winchester is truly absent, there should be no one to complain if Sam conducts a bit of investigative work about the property.

Mind made up, Sam smoothly rounds the porch, stepping over long weeds and brush to gain access to the side of the house. A small window punches the monotony of wooden slats—Sam attempts to peer in, but the glass is so dirty and smudged, he cannot see beyond the mundane contents of the sill (a candle-holder, and two pens). Again, Sam notes the eccentric placement of more sugar; whilst the majority of it sits on the interior, tiny granules escape to the outer ledge. Sam tries the window—it doesn’t budge.

It is at this juncture that a tinny strain of voices filters over Sam’s ears, carried by the wind. Like a terrier that’s caught scent of prey, Sam perks towards the source of noise in hopes of re-capturing the ghost of words in the air.

Long moments transpire, but Alas! Its owners speak in too low a tone to permit his hearing anything of it. The longer he endeavours, however, the more plain it becomes that the voices originate behind the residence.

With his heart performing a percussion line against his ribs, Sam slowly creeps through the overgrown flora, vying for a better post from which to eavesdrop—or at the very least, one that can afford a glimpse of his subjects. Though he inches ever nearer, the conversation now a constant burble, the details of it remain damnably inaudible.

Suddenly, as one voice raises heatedly, Sam gets one phrase entire: “—why can’t we tell him? It’s _his_ life, after all.”

Sam gasps. That voice—that gritty, hot-blooded voice—it’s _Dean._ Of that fact, there holds not a shred of doubt in Sam’s mind…only, for what earthly reason would Dean be doing here, out in Oakland?

Sam cautiously edges out from behind the house, where a makeshift clearing—delineated by a ragged ring of trees and fern—composes the semblance of a yard. Two men stand in the middle of it, arguing.

“I didn’t raise you to be insolent, Dean. You _know_ what folly that would pose.”

The wild growth of greenery effectually hides Sam from view—on the other hand, the View is equally hidden from Sam. As this will hardly quench his curiosity, he takes a chance and nimbly leaps behind the nearest tree—

A throwing knife hurtles through the air and lodges itself into Sam’s chosen shield with a terrifying _THUNK_ , scant inches from his nose. He strangles an inelegant cry in his throat—is numbly proud for the way his voice stays, even as he watches the knife hilt quiver from the lasting impact of its collision.

Sam swallows hard, immobile with the fear of having been caught. The two resume their quarrel, however, and Sam emits a silent sigh of gratitude.

From behind the tree, the branches expose rents and gaps from between which Sam can spy—he chooses his position carefully, for the men appear to be using his cover for target practice, as suggested by the throwing knives that rest on a hip-high tree stump between them—the weapons laid out in a row like silver fish—or by the scarred bark and deep ruts scattered across all the trees within Sam’s proximity. Once he settles into a propitious arrangement, Sam re-aligns his focus on the dialogue at hand.

“…would be playing straight into their hands.” The older man—Sam supposes him to be J. E. Winchester—stands firm, emphasizing his point with the shake of a small knife in his hand. Though Sam squints to the best of his abilities, the identity of the man escapes him—he’s turned away, exposing naught but short, salt-pepper hair, and the large expanse of his back.

“But—“

“—But _what,_ Dean?”

Dean pauses here, reluctant to assert his reasoning, in much the same way a beast will defer to the leader of its pack. It seems, however, that Dean is ardent enough in his views that he will break habit to contend: “I think he deserves to know.”

The words echo loudly in Sam’s ears, as he distinctly remembers having uttered an identical statement once: _I think I deserve to know_. Is it possible that the crux of the dispute unfolding before him…do they speak of him?

Another whip of a knife buries itself into the trunk adjacent to him, and Sam snaps back from his thoughts. The older man replies:

“We’re not going to tell him. It would place him in more danger—in fact, what we _should_ be doing, is carting him off to Africa, or the Orient. This late in the game, it isn’t just about Sam anymore.” At Dean’s silence, the man heaves a large, opulent sigh. “I’m sorry, Dean, but that’s my final word on this.”

While such contentious a statement would only stir the defiance in Sam’s belly, it appears Dean is no stranger to Ultimatums. Dean concedes the point—any sign of his dissatisfaction is only demonstrated by the vigor with which he flings a knife into a pitiable tree some yards away.

“Fine, so we keep him out of this,” Dean grunts. “That just means we have to kill the bastard that much sooner.”

“My thoughts exactly. Did you manage to obtain the code?”

A faraway pre-occupation comes across Dean’s demeanor. At length, he says, “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“And?”

“ _Accodadura._ The full line goes like this: _Frutescent Yovine Cappula Acodadura._ ”

J. E. lowers his hand from its position mid-air, knife going slack in his grip. Though his visage remains hidden from Sam, Dean’s expression is immediately visible; a frown wrinkles his brow. Dean asks haltingly, “What—what is it? Where is the demon?”

“San Francisco,” J.E. replies, his voice ashen.

Dean’s own hand stills on the row of remaining knives; from even this far a distance, Sam can see the pallor of Dean’s skin as his blood drains away. “Christ,” Dean swears savagely. “Where precisely?”

Sam pitches forward, intent on hearing the answer to Dean’s question even as he sneaks a hand into his pocket to grab his fountain pen, in the event the reply proves too meticulous for memory alone. Never say Sam Winchester was an unprepared fellow.

“ _Frutescent Yovine, Cappula Acodadura._ Right?” Dean nods, and so J. E. translates: “’Firstly, the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Observatory. Golden Gate.’”

Dean’s recognition dawns alongside Sam’s, as he voices both their thoughts aloud—“Sweeney’s Observatory. Over in the park.”

“How far is that from Sam?” J. E. demands.

“Just a few stops away by trolley. Does—does Azazel know that Sam’s right under his nose? God, the one thing the demons want, and we cosy them up together like idiots.” 

The older man sounds grim as he says, “We’ve got to destroy Azazel before the demons realize. Even with the sigil we put on him, I’m surprised Sam’s escaped their notice thus far. We can’t be this sloppy anymore.”

Suddenly, J. E. Winchester pivots and unknowingly presents himself to the full extent of Sam’s observant lynx-eyes.

If Sam harboured any doubt from this scene that J. E. Winchester was indeed his Father—the man Sam had censured all his life for the tragedies he’d been made to suffer through as a young boy—they all vanish, replaced with a fierce surety. Though true, Sam was but a babe at the time, he can no sooner forget the man than he could his own face. The wide set of John’s mouth—the gruffness of his hands and familiar stance with which he holds himself—Sam sees himself in this man, and furthermore, _remembers_ him.

He hates that the effervescent memories he retains of John are at such odds with Sam’s resentment. He hates that even now, Sam’s instincts would have him embrace the man, as if he were still the same boy he once was—four years old, and loved. A bitter lump forms in his throat; Sam swallows it down, his fingers itching to push the tree branch aside and to reveal himself—still, he is not so foolish as to give up his location; not when matters of such enormity and secrecy are available for the taking, if only Sam will arrest his impulses long enough to listen.

Unfortunately, the bulk of what will be said, has been said. John begins to stalk towards Sam’s position in the trees, saying over his shoulder to Dean, “Stay the night. We can go over our stratagem here in Oakland, but prepare to leave by to-morrow Evening.”

John’s trajectory remains a straight path to discovery, so Sam hastily dashes to the side, finding cover around the corner of the house. Not a moment too soon, either—John reaches the pocked tree and begins extracting the small knives from their wooden sheathes, the ferns beside him swaying in the wake of Sam’s evacuation.

As a mouse with light feet will do, Sam skitters through the side yard and retreats down the road in the direction from whither he came.

\-----

Thirty minutes later, onboard the _Melrose_ with his face to the wind, Sam shields his eyes from the fluorescent sky and slowly, methodically considers all he has learnt of during his excursion to Oakland.

There is much to process. 

The fact of his Father’s existence remains that—a fact. In due time, the shock will diminish. By contrast, the subject of which John and Dean discussed… _that_ poses a quandary worthy of deep deliberation. 

Sam now knows, to a reasonable extent, the location of the monster that murdered his mother—additionally, there is the newfound information that Azazel searches for Sam (to finish off the job he began some twenty years ago, Sam can only assume). And in conclusion…what, exactly? What course of action is Sam to follow from these priceless morsels of information?

With a sudden, ferocious squeeze of pain, a sharp sensation penetrates the forefront of Sam’s head like an ice pick jammed between his brows. He crumples to the floor of the deck, one hand pinched over his forehead, the other still clutching the banister lest he topple overboard—

The effort is of no consequence, however, for the maritime scenery drops away beneath Sam’s feet, only to be replaced with solid, packed terrain.

He allows his eyes a moment to adjust—only, they never do, regardless of how much blinking or rubbing he performs. The images before him remain stubbornly hazy, the colors saturated and unearthly.

Sam takes a hesitant step forward, swiveling his head about in attempts to discern his surroundings. He is outdoors. The Time: seemingly the dead of night, as overhead, pinpoints of white vibrate into surreal streaks, connoting stars. His wandering gaze skims across decrepit lawn that rolls upwards, forming a crest of land that Sam doggedly climbs. 

He reaches the top of the hill—in an instant, his whereabouts become sickeningly plain.

Sam finds himself in a remote tract of Golden Gate Park, at the outer edges of Sweeney’s Observatory. At the ruins of them, anyhow.

Down below, a large arena of brick and stone rubble sleeps, as if in waiting for a spell that will re-cast its bygone splendor. The Observatory once constituted a beautiful, two-storyed monument built for gazing out over the City, but was carelessly felled by the Great Quake, as per the fate of so many edifices. Now, the crumbled arches exude elegant tragedy, and broken stairs lead thirty feet into the brisk night air only to drop away to unforgiving rocks.

Near a particularly large collection of boulders, a blur of activity catches Sam’s eye—his attention flies to the open clearing that yawns within the ring of wreckage.

There, three figures warily circle—Sam starts forward, scrambling down the hill and kicking up dirt en route to the tableau where three men, whose identities Sam can only assume are—

 _No, STOP_ —Sam thinks as he hits ground level. 

The scene rolls on, heedless of Sam’s desperation; Dean and John lunge for the third figure— _Azazel_ —with deadly weapons raised. In response, however, Azazel merely allows a spine-chilling stretch of a too-wide grin crawl over his mouth. Time trembles, and slows…

With a yell, Sam falls to the ground.

Beneath him, the wooden deck pitches back forward, and Sam nearly slips through the flimsy rails that keep individuals from lolling about the boat’s edge and falling overboard.

An anonymous hand claps his shoulder and tethers him as Sam finds his feet. He distractedly thanks the man before looking up to realize that the ferry has dropped anchor, its passengers lining up to file onto the pier. Sam watches the queue for a moment; single, working men pop their knuckles impatiently, eager to get home for the day, while dirty families huddle together, taking comfort in each other’s presence. A great many of them are no doubt embarking towards a new chapter of their lives, having completed their journey across the Trans-Atlantic Rail. 

Out of the blue, a sense of kinship bubbles up within Sam, as he likens himself to one of the weary travelers stepping off the ferry—he is, after all, on the cusp of something unknown and inalterable in his own life…

…for Sam has decided: he is to bring his person to Sweeney’s Observatory—to Azazel—in All due Haste. This very night, in fact. John and Dean’s lives are forfeit otherwise, and the loss of life—the loss of _Dean_ , who holds so much of Sam hostage, and stands to claim yet more—is simply unthinkable.

Sam grimly sets his jaw and steps off the ferry.


	8. The Truth About Sam, Part One

Dean Winchester, son of John Eric Winchester and Mary née Albridge, has a very, very bad feeling about this.

He taps his Latin dictionary against the table edge in short, impatient raps. John reaches over and arrests the book.

“Stop it.” 

Dean stops. 

But after a moment, he shifts in his chair, turning all the way to the left to crane his neck and look out the window. It is dark outside, the sun having laid itself to rest behind the jagged silhouette of San Francisco almost three hours prior. Dean drops his eyes, idly checking the salt on the window-sill for inconsistencies when, unexpectedly, he finds one.

Dean frowns, tracing a finger through the salt. It’s moved since he poured it there in the Morning, and not by the usual pesky snag of air through the window. He shoots a glance over his shoulder—Dad continues to scribble into his old leather journal, one hand furiously penning while the other splays open a yellowed tome. Dean redirects his attention to the window.

With a mottled sense of foreboding, Dean pokes at the latch with a finger. It’s obvious the contraption’s been tried. Unsuccessfully, but nonetheless…Dean’s heart seizes painfully as he thinks… _No. Please, please, no._

He shoves his chair back and Dad’s head jerks up as if on strings. “What is it, Dean?”

“Just gon’ get some air.”

A pause—then, “Don’t be long.” John goes back to his materials.

Dean feigns flippancy as he exits out the back porch, but the moment the door shuts behind him he frees the panic coiled in his belly and allows it to run as rampant as he does, tripping his way towards the arc of trees bordering the yard.

The thing is, Dean thought he caught—no, he _had_ caught some unnatural movement in the trees earlier in the Day, in between throwing knives and strategy-making with John. At the time he’d dismissed the flicker as a trick of the light, perhaps glinted off a knife or filtered strangely from the sun between rustling leaves; but ever since, a nagging sensation has dogged him, threatening to distract Dean at a time when even the most negligible of such diversions could prove catastrophic.

Dean upends the area behind the trees, hunting for some clue or sign as to the identity of their Spy (and desperate to disprove who Dean dreads it to be), when he finds it.

Between blades of wild grass and half-rotted leaves, Dean picks up a clearly misplaced article and holds it up to the light—it is a beautiful, stately writing utensil. A fountain pen. Engraved upon the black, polished shuttle, is the signifier: _Samuel J. Winchester, Esq._

With a savage curse, Dean buffets the nearest tree with strength enough to draw blood to his knuckles.

\-----

Across the bay, over the piers and past the hills of South San Francisco, Mrs. Brady Gough—or Ava, as we are wont to call her—purses her pretty lips and re-attempts to make a telephonic connection.

“Are you doing it correctly, dear?” From his seat opposite, Ava’s husband sips at his evening coffee and peers at her with amusement.

“Of _course_ , Brady. We’ve had the Telephone for two weeks now—I know how to use my own furniture,” she snaps, before returning her attention to the operator on the line.

Brady watches with increasing curiosity as Ava frowns, arguing with the disembodied voice: “Is he absolutely _certain_ that Mr. Winchester is not in? I don’t know how much I trust the door-man. He doesn’t seem entirely present, at times—No, no, I am not trying to be rude, I’m simply surprised, is all. All right, very well. I suppose I shall try again in a little while.” Ava jams the earpiece onto its hook with undue force, and the object clatters off uselessly. Brady reaches over and hangs it back up, neatly.

“Perhaps he merely stepped out,” he gently suggests.

“But he _told me_ he would inform me as to the merits of his trip immediately upon his return. It’s been hours already, Brady. It is not like Sam to renege on his word. It’s not like him at _all_.” Ava heaves a grand sigh, and her slender shoulders slope with unease. “I’m worried,” she adds in a small voice.

Brady sets his coffee down, freeing his hand so as to reach over the low table and holds his wife’s chin with a sure grip. Her large, liquid eyes meet with his. “There’s no need to be worried, Ava. You know better than I do, Sam’s hardly a boy who needs to be fussed over. Perhaps the meeting didn’t go so well as he—or you and I, for that matter—had hoped. Sam will find you when he is ready.”

Ava pulls his hand up to her cheek and holds it there, taking comfort in the constancy that is her husband’s presence. “I hope you’re right,” she murmurs.

\-----

A twenty-minute’s trolley ride away from the regalities of the Wilson estate, in the dark, cluttered space of one of the Roadhouse Tavern’s small bedrooms, a young man turns his head.

Ashcroft McGinness—police sergeant of the SFPD and, more delicately, renowned researcher and contact for the ragtag collection of Hunters scattered across the West Coast—frowns at the electro-magnetic frequency reader that sits in the corner of his living space.

The hand-made contraption hums again, loudly, and Ash detaches all attention from the storm of papers on his desk to narrow his gaze upon the unassuming wooden crate.

He leaves his seat to kneel before it, examining the meter with growing consternation.

The small, silver needle installed into the meter is pointing to the far right—straining, as if it would prefer to leap out altogether. Nearly 180 degrees of indication away from the needle’s usual state of repose, the sight of it is alarming indeed.

Ash’s first thought is that the contraption must be broken. After all, over a full decade has passed since its conception at the resourceful hands of a young Dean Winchester; it would hardly be fantastical for the meter to have simply exhausted itself into disrepair.

But then, a low, sinister rumble of thunder climbs through the room in a palpable wave that electrifies the skin on Ash’s body into fraught goose-pimples.

A flash of lightning follows; it floods through the window, and the room explodes into cold, violet-tinged light. The EMF meter squeals in its wake and this time, the needle successfully escapes from its fixture. The tiny spear hurtles itself off like a lemming will do at cliff’s edge, piercing the wall with a deadened _thwup._

While Ash may have initially doubted the readings of Dean’s EMF meter, the unnatural, thick thunderclouds gathering over the City warn him otherwise.

 _It’s here,_ Ash slowly thinks, as icy fear pumps through his veins.

Another thunderous growl punctuates the air and with sudden urgency, Ash abandons the EMF meter to leap towards door, jutting his head out to call:

“Ellen!”

Across the sparsely-filled tavern, an aged woman pulls away from conversation with a patron. Long, dirty-blonde strands of hair straggle out of her messy coif and she tucks a piece behind her ear, impatiently yelling back, “What now, Ash?”

Ash comes out from his room, and goes up to the bar. “John Winchester,” he broaches, wincing as her expression turns inclement.

“What about him?”

“I need to wire him.” Ellen opens her mouth as if to argue, but Ash quickly adds—“It’s urgent.”

Perhaps it is the naked fear cast over Ash’s ordinarily jovial countenance, or the humid malevolence that slowly, but perceptibly fills the air—either way, Ellen Harvelle pursues no line of questioning. She simply pulls Ash to the back room, where the Roadhouse telegraph key is affixed to a small, pock-marked desk, and kicks a small wooden stool over to him. Gruffly, she says, “His number’s 1094. Don’t blame me if you don’t catch him.”

“I hope we do. For everyone’s sake, I hope we do.” 

Ellen leaves the room. Ash turns around and sets about connecting the wire, fingers fumbling in his haste.

\-----

Above the City of San Francisco, dense, purple-gray clouds angrily blot out the sky.

Mothers involuntarily bundle their children closer to their bosoms. Folks see the heavy mass in the air and immediately take cover. Beasts of all shapes and forms stomp and bark and caw, smelling malice in the air—they smash down pens and fences in their panic, while those at water’s edge break for the shore, leaping headlong into tempestuous waves in their blinding desperation to get away.

Further inland rests the timeless ruins of Sweeney’s Observatory—only a wide ring of crumbled stone remain of the edifice once employed for celestial gazing. Regardless, there are no stars out to-night, only thunderclouds that slowly, purposefully revolve around a central axis…

It is here, where Samuel John Winchester stands. Young lawyer of the City, and ordinary citizen oblivious to the extent of his own Fate—Sam looks up at the sky and watches the swollen cotton bolls of clouds stretch down, as if pinched and twisted through a spindle.

Where the fibers pull down to Earth, a man slowly materializes under Sam’s watch. As he gains in solidity, his eyes open—they’re colored bright, eerie yellow and slit like those of a reptile.

 _Azazel,_ Sam thinks.

He is not mistaken. Azazel, demon of hell and murderer of Sam’s radiant young Mother, opens his carnivorous mouth, and says: 

“Sam Winchester. Sammy, Sam-Sam. I cannot tell you how _thrilled_ I am to see you again.”


	9. The Truth About Sam, Part Two

From a distance, Sam would hardly spare a second look at the man who stands in front of him. He appears of average height, of average appearances—a bit on the older side, perhaps, leathery wrinkles dominating the lines of his mouth.

The eyes, however. Azazel’s supernatural, glowing eyes give his persona away.

“I must thank you for prostrating yourself before me. Were you not present right here, in the _flesh_ —“Azazel licks his lips with a pointed tongue. “Why, I would scarcely believe it myself.”

The sinewy creature slinks forward, growing all the more unnatural as his vibrating excitement stresses the binds of his human body. Sam feels a chill in his bones, but stuffs the sensation away and bites back—“Why didn’t you retrieve me earlier then? Couldn’t finish the job the first time around?”

“Believe me, if I had _known_ you to be a mere afternoon’s stroll away, you would be in a very, very different Place right now.” Yellow eyes flick down over the expanse of Sam’s body, and Sam tries not to shiver under them. The demon sees all, however, and only inches nearer.

With a sudden snap of his arm, Azazel tangles a fist in Sam’s shirtfront and rips it open, the material shoved down to strain against his jacket lapel, detachable collar hanging uselessly as Sam cranes from the touch.

The demon growls a bottomless, breath-robbing sound, before hissing, “ _This._ ” He bares his teeth at a dark brand of pigmentation coloring Sam’s skin, just below his left clavicle. “This would be why we haven’t had the pleasure until now, my dear Sam.”

Sam swallows convulsively, looking down. “What are you talking about? My birthmark?”

“Are you really as stupid as you sound, boy, or are you playing games with me?”

Truly, the conversation is beyond him, for the large, blood-purple mark gracing Sam’s chest has been present for as long as he remembers.

“Could it be…the lauded, infallible _Sam Winchester_ is truly…as ignorant as a mortal rodent? Don’t you know the Truth about yourself?” Azazel smirks, reaching forward to trace a dirty fingernail over the arcs of the symbol, as Sam fights down revulsion. “You were chosen from the very beginning, by Lucifer Himself. We dripped His blood into your wee little mouth, and from that day forth, it was only a matter of time before your powers would awaken. Of course, He didn’t want to leave it to chance. 

“The Three of us watched over you. But once your family caught wind of our presence, your trail simply vanished, and we lost you. Needless to say, this did not please Him.” Azazel digs his nails into Sam’s chest, just over the brand on Sam’s chest. “I see, now. Your daddy and big brother did this to you. Ever the meddlesome gnats, those two—“ Azazel curls a lip and the pressure he exerts beneath his fingers turn furious. Five talon-like nails suddenly dart forth to embed themselves into Sam’s skin, piercing through skin and flesh as they _drag_ down, carving five, ragged slices through the mark on his skin, and with it—

“ _Yes,_ ” the demon murmurs. “Yes, _there you are,_ Sam!” Azazel steps back, flinging his arms wide open as he accepts some invisible force that Sam, utterly distracted by the burning sensation of the dripping gashes in his chest, can only conceive of.

“THERE you are!” Azazel trips backwards, consumed by his exhilaration, and Sam—clever, industrious Samuel Winchester—steals forward, one hand clutching his still-bleeding wound while the other grasps for the weapon concealed in his waistband—

_Please, please let this work—_

Azazel freezes, maniacal laughter stopped in its tracks. Sam opens his eyes and numbly looks down, where he has buried his knife inside the demon’s belly. Blood, red as any human’s, drips down the brass handle in a thick, definitive path that creeps along Sam’s fingers, one at a time.

Sam dares to look up.

The sight he is graced with is not, under any circumstance, the one he had hoped for.

Azazel’s serpentine smile grows an inch. “Holy water?” he chuckles. “Really, Sam. Did you think a silver blade blessed with _holy water_ was going to even scratch me?”

With inhuman speed, he catches the grip around the knife hilt and wrangles Sam’s fingers loose with bone-bruising pressure, giggling all the while. “This barely even _tickles,_ you dumb beast! Who do you think I _am?_ ”

Sam has barely the time to feel his heart sink before he finds himself launched in the air and thrown against a crumbling wall with what feels like the force of a steam-powered engine. Any struggle is quickly thwarted, as Sam discovers with interminable dismay that he is, indeed, stuck like a swat bug by invisible hands.

“Oh, this is rich. This is _priceless_. The Great Sam Winchester, the little baby prince we’d all pinned our Hopes and Dreams upon…is no more powerful than a human meat-suit.” Azazel’s monologue gains a singsong quality as he continues: “This is perfect. It is perfect that I got to you first. Lilith—that spineless, little whore—she may wish to bow and scrape before you, but I…I have better plans for you.”

Sam fights to speak, or move, or _anything_ —unfortunately, he finds his will entirely at the mercy of the demon who holds him captive. Azazel drags him up, and up, little pebbles of grit grinding into his hair and clothes…

“Well, Sam, it was good catching up. But I’m afraid this is the end.”

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, and braces himself.

\-----

The explosion comes.

What follows, however, is not the White Light that Sam anticipates. Nor is it the flames of a hell so unequivocally proven to exist.

Instead, Sam finds himself dropped like so much luggage. He keels over, rubbing the soreness from his limbs when suddenly—Azazel shrieks, piercing Sam’s eardrums. Hands automatically fly up to his ears—just in the nick of time—for a second explosion erupts in the form of a loud, messy gunshot.

Over it, a string of syllables and words rendered in Latin can be thinly heard. Sam looks up and finds himself face-to-face with the familiar stance of—

 _Oh no,_ Sam thinks, staggering to his feet. “Dean!” Sam yells, watching Azazel’s blinding, yellow eyes turn maniacal as his human body is bombarded with bullet holes. “Get out of here, he’s going to—he’ll _kill you!_ ”

At the interjection, Dean throws a fierce expression over his shoulder that freezes Sam in place, while his Latin recitation and short-barrel shotgun continue in a relentless two-front attack that keeps the Demon at bay.

Still, their opponent is not one to give up easily. A savage snarl roars in Sam’s ears as flames tall as himself rise up from the earth in a terrestrial rendition of the Underworld. The blinding oranges and burning reds flicker pink through the skin of Sam’s slammed-shut eyelids, when suddenly, he sees—  
 _  
Fire. More fire, the room ablaze, conflagration licking up the walls and sending timber down like fallen angels. A boy—a protector, his stance strong and familiar, scoops Sam up and nestles him close. Unintelligible whispers, promising safety and shelter—_

Suddenly, as if a switch has been triggered, the flames extinguish themselves. Any evidence of their existence is betrayed only by scorch-marks of burnt grass and the smell of smoke in the night air. In the abrupt stillness, Azazel’s body slumps to the ground in a heap of bloodied flesh while Sam watches on, tense and afraid to hope.

Nothing more comes—not immediately, at least. There is only the slack posture of Dean as he lowers his sawed-off firearm and lets his chin drop to his chest. Sam’s ears ring in the aftermath of raging conflagration and exploding artillery. He ventures: “Dean?”

No response. Sam tries again: “Dean. Are you…is he gone?”

Dean swings around, lets drop his firearm, and looks up to smile. It is not a warm expression that colours Dean’s face, however; neither is it a warm timbre that graces his voice when he eventually replies, “ _Gone_ is not quite the word I’d use.”

Dean blinks, his eyes flickering yellow.

 _No,_ Sam thinks as dry horror echoes throughout his body. _Damn it, **Dean.**_ Sam scrapes together all his mettle to demand: “Give him back.” Unfortunately, Sam hears his own breath shake as it leaves his lungs, and knows his defiance to be naught but gesture.

“I don’t know,” the demon says colloquially. “I rather like it in here. More _spry_ than that bag of bones, at least.” He cocks his head towards the motionless body shucked behind him. “And… _oh, my,_ ” he continues, slow pleasure sneaking into his words. “It’s more _interesting_ in here, as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well for starters, we’re talking _Dean Winchester,_ here. Any of my pals would kill to get a shot at trying him out—well, they’d kill regardless, but I think you understand.”

“Dean…Winchester,” Sam repeats, mostly to himself. _Winchester._

As if the fiery scene his mind had conjured just moments before was not indication enough—indeed, if not all clues up to and including this showdown with hell had not been proposing this one, all-important Truth…

Dean’s his _brother._

It strikes Sam with such resonance that he fails to understand how this fact had eluded him thus far. Since their first encounter in the Warren mausoleum, Dean had posed the paradox of both sheer familiarity and mystery. Sam never could quite grasp the exact attribute of the man that so intrigued him… _attracted_ him, moreover…

It is upon this sobering thought that he realizes the extent to which this fascination with Dean has manifested itself: dreams, both waking and not, and a fixation so severe he’d perceived it as _desire…_

_Oh, God._

Perhaps a modicum of the emotions that ravage Sam is reflected in his demeanor or some such ostensible display—in any case, Azazel latches upon it like a predator, as he twists Dean’s features into eerie delight.

“You boys,” he says, prowling forth. “You naughty, _naughty_ boys.”

“Get out of him,” Sam begs, fearing the consequence of what Azazel has deduced.

“I’d rather not. This is too. Much. Fun.” The Demon rolls his words around his tongue, punctuating it with a wide grin as he stops short, close enough for Sam to see the freckles dusted over Dean’s skin as it glows in the moonlight.

“What do you want?” Sam spits.

At this, Azazel clinches the space between them and wantonly presses Dean’s body against Sam’s.

Sam inhales sharply, but strangles it so as to appear unruffled. It is a complete sham, however, for Sam is _extremely_ ruffled. After all, it is no everyday occurrence to have the physical excitement of another man—or demon, for that matter—so blatantly asserted against his person.

Azazel gaily watches Sam’s throat work in desperate swallows. “What, Sammy?” he taunts. “Isn’t this what you want?”

Sam’s mouth twists into a sneer as he plasters himself against the shambled wall in attempts to procure some distance between them. To no avail, however, as the Demon follows in, grinding his growing erection against Sam’s hip.

“You’re sick,” Sam whispers.

Azazel is only all-too forthcoming when he counters, “No, _you’re_ sick. You, _and_ your brother. You think this—“ Azazel reaches down and cups himself (cups _Dean_ ) with an unabashed hand. “You think that’s me? I hate to break it to you, but while this is fun and all, I like to separate work from carnal pleasure.” Azazel leans in, gusting air over Sam’s turned cheek when he sings, “No, this body is _all_ Dean.”

He pulls back to say offhandedly, “I always knew there was something off about your family. Never quite pictured _this,_ but…well. Just goes to show you, mortals can be right hypocrites when it comes to assuming the high road.”

When Sam pointedly ignores him—characteristic mulishness coming to the fore as he refuses to be cowed by Azazel’s mental provocations—the Demon huffs in displeasure.

Unfortunately for Sam, Azazel knows precisely the genre of impetus that will catch the interest of his prey. He giddily announces: “Two Winchesters to slay in a single night! What fun!”

Though Sam has his head turned aside and his eyes squeezed shut, he is helpless to prevent the sound of ripping fabric from splitting the air, no more easily than he can overlook the hot, thick fluid that splatters across his chin and neck. When the unmistakable tang of metal touches his lips and makes its way over his tongue, Sam’s eyes shoot open in unadulterated terror.

What he sees is precisely the fulfillment of his starkest fears: Azazel had obtained Sam’s knife from wherever it lay and plunged it deep into Dean’s chest. The brass hilt of it protrudes from Dean’s body like a lever off a trolley, bobbing up and down from the efforts of Azazel’s deafening, unrestrained cackles as he calls out between guffaws, “One down—one to go!”

“Dean!” Sam lunges forward and grabs his brother round the waist in anticipation for a collapse that does not come. Only a second torrent of blood washes out over his hands. “ _Dean,_ ” he repeats, allowing the panic in his voice edge into desperation as he chants his brother’s name under the sound of Azazel’s raucous, joyous ejaculations.

The laughter is never-ending; the echoes of it will haunt Sam for years to come. And though his mind has numbed to near breaking point—Sam stares at the gaping wound in Dean’s chest as it gushes bright, red blood in rhythmic pulses—a thunderous shout of another voice suddenly wrenches his focus from the hollowing sight.

Sam looks up to find the tense form of John Winchester, just yards away.

There is no time for surprise, as the man immediately throws a small object towards Sam, who catches it automatically. John barks, “Throw it over his head!”

Sam snaps to attention, shaking the article out—attached to braided string is a metal pendant; he spreads the loop wide open and deftly hooks it over the head of the startled Demon.

The laughter tapers off, followed by a sharp, purposeful cough. The Demon repeats it, coughing hard and wetly as if struggling to dislodge some object from his throat. Though nothing comes forth, Azazel refuses to quit; his entire body lurches with the strain of expelling some object that will not surface, and he is soon reduced to a painful dry heave.

In the blunted silence, John’s voice picks up a well-memorized speech that carries over, strong and clear. He dictates confidently, exorcism cascading from his mouth like a coming tide.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…_ ”

Dean kneels on the floor, now, convulsions and gags gaining in turbulence with every step John circles in with. Finally, John’s voice rising to an emphatic crest, Dean throws his arms out behind him, chest yanked vertically into a frightening contusion as a screeching scream careens from his mouth into an expulsion of dark, cloudy matter.

Like a tornado in reverse, the thick clouds spread out towards the sky, accompanied by an electrical storm of lightning that splits the sky open wide, until slowly, reluctantly, the lightning eases down into sizzles of static. Black clouds dissipate, giving way to lighter, more natural weather. The dregs of grey lazily drift apart and the moon finds itself again, peering down to watch as miles below, the fragile form of Dean Winchester crumples to the ground.

His father and brother dart forward, catching Dean before his body hits the scorched earth.

\-----

“Dean,” Sam says. His voice is small and scared, even to his own ears. John passes him a cursory look, then re-focuses on the broken body of his elder son.

“Dean,” John says, his voice firm and demanding. “You’re okay, son. Come on, you’re okay.”

Sam dully watches as John cuts the mangled shirt from Dean’s body with a serrated blade. From the utilitarian bag he’s brought, John extracts a skin of water and pours it over the leaking wound. “Come on,” he cajoles. “Just a scratch.”

“Did he…is he going to be okay?” Sam ventures.

“Well, he missed his heart, if that’s what you’re asking,” John replies, bringing his eyes up to meet Sam’s. With hesitancy belied by the sure hands that continue to work over his task, John says, “You did good out there, Sam.” He looks like he wants to say something more, but then a pitiable cough sounds from below and all attention zeroes in on Dean.

Dean struggles to sit up, groaning. Sam stills him with a gentle palm, but John quickly brushes it aside and quells Sam’s protests with a stern look, saying, “Let him up. We need to patch the wound.”

With militant efficiency, John cleans and bandages with supplies pulled from his kit—a kit that includes a whisky flask, which Dean digs out with single-minded surety. Triumph briefly lands across his visage as his hand closes around said object…at least, until he realizes he has only one arm with which to use, while John monopolizes the other, holding it steady as he wraps strips of linen over injured flesh. Dean throws Sam a plaintive look until his message is communicated; with a start, Sam quickly unscrews the top of the flask and returns it to Dean.

Grimaces, grunts, and forceful swigs of alcohol punctuate the time it takes for John to finish up, but before long, Dean is—asides from a pallor no doubt attributable to the extensive blood loss he’d suffered—thankfully on the path to recovery.

As the immediate crisis concludes, Sam lets himself relax. What follows is the slow, incredulous realization that Firstly, Azazel is _gone_ —exorcised, and banished beyond the gates of hell.

He blinks round to face the drawn—but relieved—faces of Dean and John. _My family,_ Sam thinks. He feels his chest expand with an incredible sense of belonging, for it is inarguable it is that Sam _belongs_ with these men. Underneath the grizzled exterior of the eldest Winchester, John regards Sam with insurmountable affection and pride. Next to him, Dean—too tired to filter the sentiments he is ordinarily so loth to reveal—allows unadulterated joy to dance across his features.

While Sam is perfectly content to allow the continuation of their tableau, the three of them unable to help from face-splitting grins, John eventually speaks up.

“Sam,” he starts. “I think you may already be aware of this, but I’m your father. And Dean—“ he gingerly sets a palm on a bare shoulder as Dean glances up to lock eyes with Sam—“This is Dean, your—”

“We’ve made each others’ acquaintance,” Sam interrupts, gaze darkening as he wets his lips. Dean’s smile slips a fraction, but Sam continues, “I have things I want to say to you, John. While I’m entirely contented to meet you, you must understand my perplexity as to why it took two decades for us to reunite. For the moment, however, I’d like to speak with Dean. In private.”

John spares a careful look between his two sons, who appear to carry on some silent conversation. He shrugs and says to the elder, “I’ll be at the pier. You know the one.” He then turns to Sam, reaching out to envelope Sam in a gruff embrace. “I know you must be angry, Sam. But let me just say first, our absence…it was for your own good. We wanted to keep you safe and out from all these supernatural affairs, especially with the knowledge we had about you. In any event, you know as well as the rest of us now, it’s not a pretty world out there.” John lets go and looks Sam square in the eye. “Kept an eye on you, though. You’ve grown up good, son.”

With one last squeeze that fills Sam with boyish pride, John turns to go.

\-----

Only Dean remains.

He watches on with palpable apprehension—asks, “What did you want to talk about?”

Sam plants himself in front of his brother and breathes: “Only this.”

A forceful kiss demonstrates his intent—the initial shock of it leaves Dean immobile, so Sam seizes the moment to turn his brother’s face up with possessive hands and eagerly deepens the kiss until it’s sweet, and _good_. Sam slowly licks his way in, spreading soft lips open into a hesitant return of heat.

When Dean jerks back, Sam snatches the lapels of Dean’s coat with jackrabbit reaction, keeping him close.

“We can’t…I’m serious, Sam. We _can’t._ ”

Sam says nothing, only bows his head, turns his mouth down at the corners, and glances up through his hair, strands of which have fallen loose from its hold. And although Sam makes no further utterance, Dean replies:

“Don’t be like that, Sam. Don’t…don’t look at me like that. If you knew, you wouldn’t look at me like that.”

“Knew what?”

Dean’s eyes drop to the floor and he says: “You didn’t let the fella finish, earlier. Your Father, I mean to say. He…he’s my father too.”

Sam keeps quiet. After all, he knows. He’s known for awhile now. And yet, this knowledge changes nothing of the insane, irrepressible urges his body will have him articulate. Oh, surely, he’d expected _something_ to change—they’re _brothers,_ for God’s sake. Sam and Dean share the same battle-worn Father; they were borne by the same tragic Mother. They spill like blood and, lest everyone forget, they’re both _men_ to boot. Whether it makes them sodomites or sinners or any of such delicate phrases, it effusively means a dangerous dalliance. And such deviance from Society—well, having been a part of the institution for so long, Sam knows fully well the disastrous consequences of societal digressions.

His intellect painstakingly alarms him to these matters. However, Sam’s emotions refuse to pay heed. The revulsion that ought to come with the cognizance of his attraction to Dean—indeed, to his very own _brother_ …it does not come. Neither can Sam bring himself to _care,_ for the green eyes that grudgingly flick up…they promise the home Sam had never quite found on his own; they promise absolution.

Dean searches his brother’s face, irises tracking back and forth like a caress. “Wait…” he says. “You knew, didn’t you?”

He did. And it matters not—Dean, on the other hand, looks inclined to be sick. He sways back in the snare of Sam’s grip, saying, “You _knew_ already, and yet you still…”

Sam doesn’t budge. Dean can look at him all he wants, but beautiful, wretched countenance notwithstanding, Sam is _not_ going to let his brother escape.

So Dean just swallows hard, whispering, “It’s perverted. You know it’s perverted, right?”

Dean’s eyes turn wide and vulnerable, sending silent pleas to Sam as if he is the elder—as if Sam is the one who can resolve their situation with a wave of the hand.

Well, who is Sam to deny his brother anything? 

Sam lets sneak the beginnings of a lopsided grin—considers it fair warning before gently cinching his arms to draw the man in with the objective of illustrating his stance on the entire issue.

He picks a swath of skin that is to his liking, along the tendons of Dean’s neck just below the scruff of his jaw, and samples it with an almost demure, perfunctory lick. It makes Dean gasp nonetheless, and the feel of it—Dean’s skittish lungs thrusting the barrel of his chest against Sam’s—stirs heat inside him. 

Sam wants to hear the gasp again—wants to be the one to provoke it. Being careful about Dean’s shoulder wound, Sam spreads his fingers over the landscape of Dean’s back, appreciative of the solidity as Dean heaves against the flat of Sam’s palms. It makes Sam wants more.

He’ll take it, if he must; Sam opens his mouth to attack Dean’s neck, suckling hard enough to bring a bloom of blood just below surface. The consequent fluttering of Dean’s breath is all the encouragement Sam needs to widen his mouth, sucking in more skin, more sweat. Hands rove southerly, sliding over infernal layers of fabric to arc side-ways and land on the spur of Dean’s hips, where thin cotton shirting transfers heat as easily as if it were skin to skin—as if Sam were touching Dean’s skin, fingers to hips.

Perhaps he pushes too far—later, Sam will hardly believe his own audacity—but Dean launches himself backwards, breaking the ring of Sam’s embrace. He delivers a green-eyed glare that would have Sam burning in shame if not for the dampening effect of Dean’s bluster as he yanks his shirt hem, stuffing it back into the waist of his trousers from whence his younger brother had so boldly ventured.

“This isn’t,” Dean pants. His hands fall uselessly to his sides. A bit of his shirt is still un-tucked, and there remains a tiny peek of bare belly there that Sam distractedly ignores. “I’m going, now. For awhile I mean.”

Sam’s eyes dart back up. “Come again?”

Dean collects himself with a steadying inhalation, before elaborating, “I’m leaving town.”

“But—“ Sam starts forward, hating the way Dean automatically back-pedals. “We’ve only just found other!”

“What, as brothers you mean? All the more reason to leave, Sam.”

There is an absurd amount of righteousness in the way Dean speaks. And while he may fool those less attuned to his idiosyncrasies, Sam is not led the least bit astray as to what lies beneath his brother’s arrogant guise. 

Dean’s _scared_. The fact of the matter is, Dean is simply unprepared to battle the monumental Goliath that is Society, and Sam…well, Sam is not so pig-headed as to deny the simple truth that, indeed, the difficulties their union would pose are just a little bit terrifying.

On the other hand, Sam is sure enough in his convictions to know that the alternative—a life-time of suppression and avoidance—would surely be the less palatable choice. Now, he need only impose upon Dean these truths.

“Everything, then—all we’ve done? Don’t be _coy_ with me, Dean. You were the one who promised ‘persuasion’ in a distinctly lascivious tone, back at the Heidelberg Inn. And lest you forget, it takes two individuals to engage in frottage. Do you think I didn’t notice your state of excitement, when you broke into my apartment? Or at the Roadhouse Tavern, when you threw me out of your room?” At the sure blush that creeps into Dean’s cheeks, Sam would whoop with victory would it not alarm his brother into anger, or denial. Thus, Sam controls his tumultuous emotions just enough to deliver, in a low and measured voice: “Don’t run from this, Dean. I swear to God—“

“It’s not running away,” Dean quickly interjects. “We need the time to…who knows, maybe the next time we meet, this will all…” He makes vague gestures with his hands, sweeping at the space between them. “It’ll all have gone away. Returned to what’s natural. The fact of our relation needs time to sink in.”

“I’m not saying we can’t be brothers,” Sam says quietly.

“Well I’m saying, we can _only_ be brothers.”

It is at this unequivocal statement that Dean leaves the Observatory. Sam, for his part, stays awhile after, reposing his back against a fallen boulder with little to keep him company but the drying blood in the grass beside him and the nebulous thoughts that drift in and out of his mind. It is only until the first fingers of dawn pull themselves into the sky that Sam gets to his feet and carries himself home.


	10. The Telegram

A week passes with no word from Dean. John either, for that matter.

The Roadhouse Tavern proves an unreliable source of information—Ash only congratulates Sam on the event of Azazel’s banishment, but beyond that, imparts nothing in regards to the Winchesters’ whereabouts. The barkeep, Ellen Harvelle, sings a similar tune, while her daughter Jo would hardly betray Dean, long-time companion that he is ( _object of affection,_ Sam thinks unkindly), just to curry favor with his pushy younger brother.

As such, the days march on, trampling Sam’s persistent telephone calls and wires into dust. Even the note he’d posted to Oakland disappears into the widening maw that is the absence of John and Dean Winchester.

The weekend arrives abruptly, Sam stumbling into it. On Saturday, Ava finds him at his home, a changed man.

Her Samuel is no longer. His eyes see further now—indeed, far beyond anything Ava could possibly imagine. He hardly speaks, smiles even less, and never laughs; frustratingly, Sam refuses to mention a single thing of what has transpired since his meeting with J. E. Winchester. Thusly, Ava—being the staunch, empathic friend that she is—rolls up her proverbial sleeves and says to Sam that weekend: “I think you should ask for Jess’ hand.”

What follows is Sam’s continuance of an unfruitful search that casts Ava’s advice in an increasingly favourable light the colder the trail becomes. In fact, less than one fortnight is all the time required for Sam to lose hope—what hopes could he have, suffice it to say, to win the amorous affections of his older brother? It was absurd of him to think anything could come of such an endeavour, and still more absurd for him to linger, wraith-like and aimless, within the dream the past few months have posed.

Like a dream, its patrons all must eventually rouse. Sam is no exception; for a man who has counted on pragmatism to get him where he is to-day, he must accept the fact that this particular reverie has ended.

It is with this reasoning that on a Wednesday morning, Sam sends a simple package with a courier to the Moore estate. Jess opens it that afternoon, after French lessons; by the morrow, the whole of San Francisco Society will hear of its contents: a pair of white ladies gloves, elbow-length and spun into the finest silk satin—or more significantly, as per tradition, the preliminary gift of a wedding engagement.

Jess smiles when she receives them, and continues to do so when she catches wind of the conversation that comes to pass between Samuel and her Father the following day, during which Sam asserts the seriousness of his intentions.

The Moores are agreeable—delighted, in fact, that a young man of Sam’s character (if not standing—but this _is_ the 20th century, after all) will love and care for their, at times worryingly, fiery daughter.

Sam and Jess are engaged on a Saturday; their announcement comes Sunday.

Sam tells himself—as does Ava, Brady, and all the men of his Office and even the acquaintances he bumps into on the streets—that he is a lucky man.

He knows he is a lucky man. The only matter he ought to concern himself with, at this juncture, is whether or not he can make Jess a lucky woman.

With every fibre in his being, he shall try. Yet there remains a voice of doubt that plagues him…Sam determinedly shuts it out and vows to make this version of his life into one that will work.

Even if it kills him, he will make this work.

\-----

_Christmas Eve, 1910. San Francisco, CA. Lotta’s Fountain._

“By Heavens, have you ever seen so many people in all your life?”

Sam misses the latter half of his fiancée’s words, despite her shouting into his ear. “What did you say?” he calls back.

“I SAID, have you ever seen so many—“ three young children plunge between them, giggling as they stream past—“so many PEOPLE IN ALL YOUR LIFE?”

Sam chuckles, draws Jess round the waist and tucks her into his side, commenting, “We’ll never find Ava or Brady in this crowd!” Jess doesn’t hear him, but she sees his mouth move and nods obligingly.

Christmas-time in San Francisco is never a trite affair. What with the abundance of festive, electric lights that decorate Union Square, or the torrents of consumers that flood the streets to demolish their favourite shops, the holiday translates into an annual Bohemian carnival worthy of San Francisco’s wild reputation.

In the event bestowed upon its citizens of this year, 1910, the pandemonium is only exacerbated, as hundreds—perhaps thousands—of bodies cram into the groaning decks of Market Street and Kearny, where internationally-renowned and beloved singer Luisa Tetrazzini will perform.

She has yet to join the choir and orchestra on the makeshift stage, but nevertheless, legions of her fans await her in the brisk, clear night, chattering idly and swirling about as angelic caroling cuts through the bustling air.

“We should have known better than to choose Lotta’s Fountain for our rendez-vous,” Jess remarks. Nearly a block away, the fountain is duly swallowed up by the crowd, creating the illusion of a sinking mast in a sea full of men’s and ladies hats. “We can’t even get NEAR it!”

“Perhaps we’ll just have to find them after.”

Jess makes to reply, but a thunderous roar of hollers, shrieks, and ground-shaking applause erupts, effusively drowning her out. Their attentions snap to the stage where the choir still stands, but the eye of the beholders is, most emphatically, _not_ upon the twenty or so garbed carolers.

Madame Tetrazzini slowly, grandly climbs the improvised steps. She is spectacular as she approaches the center of the band stand; her shimmering white gown catches the light of every electric bulb strung up in the air and with its dazzling refractions, she shines like the moon. Even from Sam’s vantage point, almost two blocks away, the miniature form of the operatic sensation seems to engulf the atmosphere until every single eye is transfixed upon her otherworldly form.

The elated cheers persist long after what is strictly polite. Eventually the slow decline of it comes, lowering in volume just enough for Sam to hear—

“I think I see them!”

Jess tugs insistently on the sleeve of Sam’s overcoat as he swivels his gaze around, expecting one of Ava’s outlandish hats or Brady’s refined stance when instead, what he discovers is—

_Dean—_

Sam’s heart stops in his chest.

“Hurry, before she begins to sing!” Jess urges, grabbing Sam’s hand to pull him through the angrily shushing crowd. Sam follows her for a bit, but his focus is firmly locked on Dean’s unmistakable figure not some yards away.

 _Damn it,_ Sam curses; Jess is leading him in the wrong direction, while serendipity—incredible, impossible Serendipity—stares him in the eye and challenges him not to embrace her benevolence.

There is no choice, not really. Sam easily loses Jess in the eager mob and dives back to chart an unerring course towards his brother. He dares not blink for fear of losing him—won’t even apologize for the disturbance he creates as he jostles through the crowd. Nothing in the world (or heaven, or hell) could tear this opportunity away from him.

By the time Sam has waded over to Dean’s side, the crowd is eerily silent, holding its collective breath for Tetrazzini to begin. Sam, too, feels the weight in the air as it is in his lungs, oppressive and significant.

Dean has yet to notice Sam’s presence. Instead, his face is upturned, brightly lit by the glare of Tetrazzini where she beams on stage. In the cloak of anonymity—for in an assembly as such, Dean is but another eager listener in his well-worn homburg and overcoat—Dean’s guard is lowered, his eyes bright and animated as a gentle smile softens his mouth.

To put it simply: Dean is captivating. Bewitching, rather, for Sam can only stand frozen, blunt and beast-like as he scrambles to re-discover man’s aptitude for language in attempts to form an appropriate salutation.

Dean blinks, unhurriedly, and the motion draws Sam in until their shoulders brush.

Up on the band stand, to the complete and utter silence of the crowd—of the _city,_ as all street cars and horse hoofs cease for the span of one inhalation—the orchestra begins. It may be at this flag, or perhaps Sam’s resolute nearness, at which Dean turns his head, eyelashes sweeping down before their inevitable rise. Dean’s pupils lazily swim up to lock on Sam’s face.

Immediately, Dean’s countenance shutters like a boarded-up window and in this instance, Samuel Winchester feels his heart break, for he wants none other than to convey so much—he _feels_ so much, yet Dean’s armour is, always, wholly impenetrable to him.

But, to the great luck of our young lawyer to-night, there exists on individual who can supersede such stubborn repudiation—Madame Tetrazzini.

Two blocks down, elevated before the Chronicle building, Tetrazzini holds her audience in thrall. Beloved heroine and daily headline-grabber, the Florentine Nightingale herself has come to infuse the downtrodden spirit of disaster-struck San Francisco with her liquid voice and grace, and finally—after an eternity, and yet, seemingly no time at all—she opens her mouth, and begins to sing.

It starts with a high note; tinny and thin, and signature of the range only she can boast. It is a clear note, lovingly carried by the controlled strength of her iron lungs as it pierces the cool night air and reaches the ears of every visitor—indeed, every San Franciscan, as the city lies on its haunches in readiness to receive Tetrazzini’s song.

So, she sings. “The Last Rose of Summer” is an exhilarating, crystalline song that sounds of bittersweet parting, of desperation and beauty. It is a song that reaches into all its listeners and pulls from them the deepest ache.

For Sam, the ache he feels is, at long last, articulated. Tetrazzini is Sam’s crutch tonight; she is his channel, his _voice._ Through the eloquence of her song, she translates to Dean—

_This…this is what I mean to say. This is how I want you._

Sam steps forward and touches Dean’s cheek, and for the first time, Dean accepts it. He butts down and Sam bites his lip as Dean closes his eyes. Gives in.

 _Dean,_ Sam mouths, entranced by the sight of his brother dragging his lips across the flat of Sam’s palm. A low coil of heat rouses in Sam’s belly; Dean stokes it with dark, beckoning eyes.

“ _God,_ ” Sam breathes, feeling the fluttered kiss at his wrist like a douse of ice water as his skin leaps, toeing the line between burn and freeze.

At the entry of violins, Tetrazzini pausing before the next verse, Sam suddenly breaks from his stupor and remembers the exact domain of which their game takes place: on the street, that is, in public. In the midst of some thousands of spectators, in fact, and unless Sam harbours a penchant for ending the night with his and Dean’s arrests by any of the police who line the edges of the streets, hawk-eyed for signs of rabble-rousing, then he will certainly relocate this affair of theirs.

With a slanted look through which Sam pours every ounce of feral seduction, he backs away from Dean and winds through a small conduit of space to slip out from the mass of humanity spilling over the streets. He hopes against all hopes that his brother follows behind.

\-----

Around the corner, between the packed sidewalks of Third street and Geary, there is a small millinery boutique that specializes in women’s hats. Mainly imports, and a motley assortment, at that. The shop is dark and closed—it is, after all, well past nine o’clock. Moreover, what use would a hat shop be when international diva Madame Tetrazzini is but one block down, serenading San Francisco in the open-air?

Inside the boutique—against all the odds that have erected before them—are Sam and Dean Winchester.

Sam kneels before his brother, bucking his head against the sweat-damp palms that scrabble at the top of his head. His own hands fare no better, as they slip on Dean’s bare thighs.

“Lord, you taste…” Sam trails off, licking the crease between Dean’s leg and scrotum, where salt and clean musk gathers. A mewl comes from overhead, and the sound of it is so sweet, so erotic, that Sam finds himself clinging to his brother’s naked hips, incapable of naught but groaning into a twitching thigh.

“Just—quit _tormenting_ me, will’ya?” Dean begs.

Sam’s groan turns into a growl; he licks across gently thrusting pelvis until his tongue reaches its destination. Picking up the tip of Dean’s flushed cock with his lips, Dean yelps and knocks a hat off the rack beside them. Mirth bubbles up in Sam’s chest, and the sensation is pleasantly welcome.

“Watch it,” Sam says playfully, between generous mouthfuls of pretty, veined flesh. “Shan’t wreck—the place, now—“ Dean cusses and kicks into the wall— “should we?”

Though Sam has mastered the art of tantalizing an audience—whether it be a jury or, in this case, a lover—he is still only human. When Dean’s cock dribbles a needy trail of wet liquid over the apple of Sam’s cheek, Sam can no more easily keep his faculties in check than fly out the window on two wings.

He makes one last kittenish suck to the shaft before engulfing it outright—Dean’s grip on his hair immediately turns painful, pulling water to Sam’s eyes, but the obscenities that spill from his mouth is worth the discomfort.

“God— _finally,_ God damn you—”

Oh, it is _very much_ worth it.

Sam grins distortedly—his mouth is occupied with the hard flesh on his tongue. Regardless, Dean seems to feel the effort and replies in kind with a breathy laugh of his own.

From hereon, the tryst quickly unravels like a thread pulled from knitting. Sam applies himself to the task at hand (or at mouth) with slightly clumsy technique, which is far recompensed by utter zeal, as Dean finds himself having to pull Sam back by the hair when the boy nearly strangulates himself with Dean’s blood-heavy flesh.

The whole encounter is a messy, desperate one, paraded to the soundtrack of a ghostly aria that filters in from the street. Under Sam’s relentless tongue and large hands, which together create the tightest, most frantic suction for Dean’s hips to erratically thrust into, it is only a matter of time before Dean—quite suddenly and to his own alarm—finds himself at the edge of release.

“Damn it,” he cusses, pushing at Sam’s head with weak hands. He may as well be trying to shift a brick wall, though, for all the good it does. “Get _off,_ I’m gonna—“

Dean feels the smirk again, feels the quirk of Sam’s lips around the base of his prick, and it is that small action more than anything, that pitches Dean overboard with a keening, bitten-off groan. He comes hard, with the voice of an angel in his ears and the strength of a crowd’s chorus reverberating through his frame. It would be ridiculous and bawdy—making love in the midst of song, like actors on stage—were it not so fitting.

Before long, Dean has emptied himself into the abyss of his brother’s mouth, and Sam is standing back up, licking ejaculate from the corner of his lips. The sight of it is sultry, dizzying, as Sam drags the back of his hand across his red mouth and chin to catch the moisture leaked there.

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice gritty and dark with arousal.

“Come here,” Dean replies, remembering with certain abashment that he has not acted as a gentleman should: he’d forgotten to take care of Sam. Well, there is a simple enough remedy.

“Wait, stop—“ Sam protests, but it is too late for Dean has already palmed Sam’s groin. Only...

Dean glances down with a small frown. “You’re not…?”

Sam attempts to weasel away, but when Dean slips a hand down the front of Sam’s trousers he quickly discovers the precise reason for Sam’s lack of excitement. Dean remarks, eloquently: “…oh.”

Sam is bright red, his flush visible even in the low light.

It is utterly endearing. Pleased, Dean pulls his brother in with his free hand, even as he wrestles the other out from Sam’s trousers and curiously licks viscous fluid from his fingertips. Sam’s seed tastes like his own, but different yet.

“God, Dean. What are you doing?” Sam breathes.

“Nothing you didn’t do, if I’m recalling correctly.”

A brilliant smile comes over Sam’s countenance, illuminating his face. Dean doesn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a precious gift; it’s a _heartrending_ sight.

“Sammy,” Dean says brokenly, dropping his face to hide in crook of his brother’s neck. “I can’t. Jesus, I can’t…stop myself when you’re like this,” he murmurs. “Can’t stop any of this, not when you’re right here, close enough to touch, every day.”

Sam noticeably stiffens. There is a long, poignant lull before Sam asks, his voice barely wavering, “Does this mean you’ll give us a shot?”

“No,” Dean replies, and he feels the waver seep into Sam’s body. He hates to do this, but Dean is the elder. He _must_. “It means I have to go.”

“You said that the last time—“ Sam pushes Dean back, locking their eyes together with no small amount of anguish on his part. “—yet you remain here. For weeks, Dean. Do not tell me I had nothing to do with it—“

“I’m leaving tonight, Sam.” When no response comes, Dean forges on: “Have my ticket and everything. Dad’s counting on me—none of this ended with Azazel, you know that.”

“So why, pray tell, does our father not dispatch himself? Why must he dictate your every move? You are not a marionette on strings; you’re a grown adult—”

“He’s got business to take care of in the Bay. And besides, it isn’t Dad. It’s me; I _want_ to go.”

“You’re running away,” Sam states. Frustration thrums in his voice, audible and _visible,_ as his fists shake at his sides.

“And you’re staying put,” Dean rebuts. He snatches up Sam’s left hand and jabs at the simple gold band around his ring finger. “I’m not blind. Nor am I deaf to what people say around this town. Do you really think I’m going to stay back—pursue some ridiculous, _inane_ delusion with you, when it took you less than a month to decide you could spend the rest of your life with this woman, with _Jess?_ ”

The immediate widening of Sam’s guilt-stricken eyes tugs at Dean something fierce, as do the clumsy, breathless explanations that stream from his brother’s mouth. Yet Dean has enough dignity scraped together to keep himself from responding kindly; he won’t beg for love like some damned whore or mistress. And Sam’s actions speak for themselves.

Dean cuts through his brother’s litany of excuses. “Stop it,” he says. “You’re not a philanderer, and neither are you the sort of man who would go back on his word. So don’t even entertain such thoughts.”

For a long, silent moment, Dean thinks he’s gotten through to his brother…but Sam surprises him when he says, almost imperceptibly: “You’re being a coward.”

It hurts to hear. Especially so, when it rings this true. “Yeah,” Dean admits. “Maybe I am. Doesn’t change anything.”

He can’t meet Sam’s eyes, because he knows of their allure, of their spell—and he knows his own weakness before them. If he meets his brother’s gaze, it will only make it impossible to do what’s right.

Outside, the songs have ceased, and one can only assume the concert is over.

Dean numbly does up his trousers and tucks in his shirt, before turning to leave the millinery shop. He’s got a train to catch.

\-----

However.

As is the nature of all matters concerning the heart, distance proves a feeble deterrent. Within weeks of Dean’s departure, the hole he leaves in Sam’s life dilates larger and larger, until it is completely evident to everyone around him that not even a matched soul such as Ms. Jessica Lee Moore could ever play substitute in the place of a Family that had been re-discovered, then lost.

More specifically, only Sam knows that Jess could never be substitute in the place of a true Love, discovered and lost.

Thusly, he breaks their engagement in February. After watching Sam’s descent into reclusion, their friends and family breathe a collective sigh of relief, for as propitious as Jess and Sam’s marriage may have seemed on paper, the folks of San Francisco are plenty modern enough to recognize the precursor to a miserable union. And with the way Sam had been shuffling his feet around the office, or dragging his walking stick behind him on the streets, like a sullen tot with a blanket, any and all persons could plainly see what a despondent newlywed he would make.

It could not be considered a _blessing,_ per se, but it is with relative ease that San Francisco Society grants their young lawyer a pass on the event of his broken engagement. It provides plenty of fodder for the gossip mill, at any rate, and the ladies never could say no to a steady crop of juicy rumours.

Sam, for his part, could care less what idle women will whisper about him. He only knows that no amount of pleading or doleful looks from Ava can heal the absence Sam feels. No number of polo matches at the Burlingame Country Club or rounds of beer at the local watering hole with the men from the office can stop Sam from yearning for his brother to sport with, or to drink with.

In fact, were Sam not so wholly engrossed with how little he cares for the things people will say of him, then he would be pleased to accept the general well-wishes of the community when it becomes known that finally, at _long last,_ the elder Winchester son makes contact.

This occurs in late March, when the first tendrils of Spring have begun to unfurl. At precisely 12:45 PM, on a cool Thursday afternoon in the cradle of his office on Market Street, Samuel J. Winchester receives a telegram from the Union Pacific Railroad Office.

It reads as follows:

 

ONE-WAY TICKET TO NEW YORK CITY FOR PICK-UP COURTESY D W

Sam lets the unfolded paper flutter to his desk.

The beginnings of a smile, though creaky and dusty from lack of use, nonetheless creeps into the corners of his lips.

Sam’s secretary very nearly impales herself upon her letter opener from shock when she detects the remarkable event that appears before her. His smile grows in strength until it reclaims almost entirely its previous magnetism, as if this were any day prior to her employer’s sudden downward spiral that had insinuated itself late December. She does not even realize the ferocity with which she has longed for the sight, but the warming of her heart indicates as such, and she is bursting to share the good news. Soon, all the adjacent offices of their floor have been notified of the happy event. _Mr. Winchester is smiling,_ she says furtively into the telephone.

_He’s smiling, and it’s only getting larger!_

Sam hears her from his desk, and it draws a chuckle from him. By the end of the day, he has left her a sizeable bonus with which to tide herself over, as he tells her unequivocally that he plans to close up shop in gay San Francisco. _Re-location is all the rage,_ he says by way of explanation, and when his secretary peeks into the envelope Sam has left for her, she has little choice but to agree.

On his way to the Union Pacific R.R., Sam feels lighter than air, and he cannot keep the grin off his face. Nor does he attempt to, for he means to leave it there until Dean can be the one to occupy his lips otherwise.

\-----

Two weeks later, with the sort of reluctant happiness that good friends will see you off with, Sam boards the _Transcontinental Express_. When he arrives at the New York Depot a mere eighty-three hours post-departure, Dean is there waiting for him—Panama hat in hand, with a grin to match Sam’s in brilliance. Only when they find themselves back in Dean’s small, one-bedroom apartment in Gramercy Park, and behind firmly closed doors, do the smiles budge.

After all, in lieu of simply grinning at each other like loons, our boys have more pressing matters with which to attend to. There will always be time for easy affections and light laughter; in fact, Sam and Dean will come to enjoy such frivolities as easily as breathing, or as living. But in the meantime, in this moment—a moment the Winchester brothers have been waiting for, for perhaps all their lives—it is enough to just be together.

It is more than enough, actually. For Sam and Dean, it’s everything.

 

 

_Fin._


	11. Bibliography & Notes

**Bibliography**

Edwards, Clarence E. Bohemian San Francisco. San Francisco: Paul Elder & Co, 1914.

Husband, Julie and Jim O'Loughlin. Daily Life in: The Industrial U.S. 1870-1900. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2004.

Jaycox, Faith. The Progressive Era: Eyewitness History. New York: Facts on File, 2005.

Tortora, Phyllis G. and Keith Eubank. Survey of Historic Costume: A History of Western Dress. 4th ed. New York: Fairchild Publications Inc, 2005.

Wells, Evelyn. Champagne Days of San Francisco. New York: D. Appleton-Century Company Inc, 1939.

 

 

**THANK YOUs**

After incubating and nurturing this story for over nine months--researching and thinking about it in my free time, whether at the library or zoning out at work--it feels a bit like GIVING BIRTH (ew).

mooyoo, THANK YOU for encouraging me to do something this retardedly huge and life-consuming. I was way too scared to even try this like, fandom thesis all on my lonesome.

minimouse, THANK YOU for being a dream of a beta. You're QUICKLIKELIGHTNING and you totally saved me from sounding like an asshole on some of that old language phrasing.

lavendervamp, THANK YOU for being an exceptionally quick beta as well. You totally called my attention to the problems with the language, so even though I kind of cranked it up as opposed to toning it down as you'd suggested, I hope a) it's a bit more consistent now and b) you'll forgive me :] You've been a great help.

keepaofthecheez, THANK YOU for pointing out stuff nobody else did. You took a completely different approach to the art of proofreading and for that I REALLY REALLY thank you. I hope my last-minute tweaks iron out a few of the things you addressed, if only minutely :O

leyna55, THANK YOU because honestly? I could NOT have been luckier landing you as my artist! I had such a blast nerding out over the clothing with you, hahaha. Your art is amazing-amazing.

...and last but not least, I have to thank **K.** , even though he's NEVER EVER going to read this. He was basically my beta for historical accuracy, he just didn't know it :0

Me: "Where would a bachelor, maybe a lawyer, live in 1910?"  
K: "Hayes Vaelly would be good. He could work downtown."

Me: "What's a cool spooky place that would've been ruined by the earthquake, but maybe stuck around?"  
K: "Try Sweeney's Observatory."

Me: "Where would an affluent family live?"  
K: "Oooh, Pacific Heights. I worked on restoring a house there. Here are the blueprints, and let me tell you everything you need to know about this building, and more." [slightly paraphrased]

Me: "Where did people have weddings?" "What was this area *points to map* like in 1910?" "Was Oakland ghetto?"

and so on, and so forth.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Telegram](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11012640) by [Leyna55 (Leyna)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyna/pseuds/Leyna55)




End file.
